Harry Potter and the Gathering Darkness
by Carlos Monroe
Summary: Another year, another tale. Harry's view of the world changes as he comes into contact with messangers of the past and heralders from the future, and all he while the Dark Lord's power grows steadily on the horizon. *Author's Note*: Please Review!
1. Sleepless Nights

Chapter 2  
  
Sleepless Nights  
  
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Life will either grind you down or polish you up, and which it does is your choice.  
  
Roger Walsh  
  
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Harry Potter woke up with a start. He sat up in bed quickly and whirled his head from side to side in a frantic manner. Harry was breathing heavily, sweat pouring from him. He lifted his hand and looked at his wrist watch. It told him that it was 3:00 in morning. Harry, beginning to calm down, slowly stood up besides his bed and picked up his glasses, which he proceeded to put on his face. He walked across the room to a small bowl filled with water, which sat next to an empty cage. The cage would normally be occupied by his pet owl Hedwig, who was Harry assumed was out hunting at the moment. He dipped his hands into the water and splashed it on his face.  
  
He crossed back across the room and sat down on the edge of his bed, contemplating his dream. He had been having the same one for weeks now. Each one was a rendition of the day during his fourth year when he had encountered Lord Voldemort again. Voldemort had come back, stronger than before, and with the forced help of Harry himself. Voldemort's servant, Wormtail, had slit Harry's arm and used his blood in a potion to bring back the Dark Lord. Harry could still remember the haunting image of seeing Voldemort, his skin pale and thin, rise out of the cauldron, reborn once more. But this was not what had been plaguing his mind.  
  
It was the sight of seeing Cedric, whom Harry had unwittingly dragged along, lying spread-eagle on the ground, dead. Voldemort had killed him, using the same curse that he had killed Harry's parents with. It was the first time harry had ever seen someone killed before him. What had Cedric done? He was an innocent, a mere child, not ready to have life taken away from him at such an early age. And it was Harry's fault.  
  
Oh, of course nobody accused him of it. In fact people went out of their way to tell him that it wasn't his fault. But Harry still blamed himself. He had brought Cedric along with him, brought him to an early age. Cedric had refused, but Harry had insisted. And now Cedric was gone. Harry hadn't intended it too happen. Harry hadn't cast the spell. But Harry still blamed himself. Just like Sirius did.  
  
Harry lifted his hand to his forehead and began to trace the pattern of the lightning-bolt-shaped scar on his right temple. It was a token from his first encounter with Voldemort when he was an infant. Voldemort had tried to kill Harry and had failed. Voldemort had been defeated and harry was left with the scar. Now it served as mark which bound the two of them together. The scar burned whenever Voldemort was near or when he was doing something vicious. Harry had gotten into the recent habit of tracing the scar with his index finger. He didn't no why he did it, he just did it. He did it whenever he was in deep thought, as he was now.  
  
Tap, Tap, Tap  
  
Harry's reverie was interrupted by a sharp sound coming from his left. He turned his head towards the window to see Hedwig there, waiting patiently on the window sill. Harry got up and opened the window to let her in. Hedwig flew over his bed, where she dropped two letters and proceeded to her cage, for a drink of water.  
  
Harry's mood brightened at the prospect of having some company from Hedwig. He walked over to his bed and lifted the two parcels and saw that one was a small package from Hogwarts, the wizard school he attended, and the other from Hermione, a friend from school. He ripped open the Hermione's letter first. Out fell a piece of parchment and a photograph. Harry picked up the photo. It was of Hermione, waving and smiling happily, standing in front of a large castle. Harry smiled and waved silently back, knowing it was silly to do so, since Hermione couldn't see him.  
  
'Well, at least she looks happy," Harry thought. 'Let's see what she has to say.' He lifted the piece of parchment and read:  
  
Dear Harry,  
  
  
  
As you have no doubt guessed, I took Victor up on his offer and went off with him to Bulgaria-  
  
That came as a shock. Harry had completely forgotten. Viktor Krum, Quidditch rookie-of-the-year and House Champion for Durmstrang, had become quite fond of Hermione during his stay at Hogwarts and had asked her to come back home with him to Bulgaria. Ron, of course, was quite annoyed at this. Hermione and he had had a great row over the matter. Harry had never understood the situation and had chalked it up to the fact that Hermione and Ron were simply the two feistiest people he knew.  
  
....Bulgaria and it is absolutely beautiful here. Viktor's family has been very hospitable towards me and they really seemed to enjoy meeting me. By the time this letter reaches you, I will probably have returned home by now, which brings me to my next point.  
  
Seeing as for the past few years, we've all met at Ron's house, I was wondering if you, Ron, and Ginny would like to come over to my house for a few days, or perhaps longer. Considering the stories you and Ron told me about when his family came to pick you up last year, I've decided that if you do visit, it would be for the best if my parent's and I come to pick you up. Please send your answer back with Hedwig as soon as possible. PLEASE say you'll come.  
  
  
  
Love from  
  
Hermione  
  
P.S. I'm a prefect! I'm so happy!  
  
Hearing that Hermione was a prefect surprised Harry. He picked up the photo of Hermione and looked closely at the right side of her chest. Sure enough, there was the silver badge with the letter P, signifying that she was a prefect. It was quite a shock for Harry. Oh, of course, he always knew that she was prefect material, but it had never occured to him to think of her that way. It simply dawned on him that they were now fifth years. This was the year they started to take O.W.L's(Ordinary Wizarding Levels), this was the year the could become prefects, this was the year that Oliver Wood(Harry's former quidditch captain), whom Harry had seen as being infinitely older than him, had been during Harry's first year. They were at a crossroads in their lives and it had come unnoticed to Harry up until now.  
  
It was at this point in Harry's thinking that the content of the letter hit him. Harry wanted to go see his friends. The only obstacle would be getting Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia to give their consent. His aunt and uncle disliked the idea of anything that made Harry happy, and they certainly had not enjoyed their meeting with the Weasley family. Fred and George had tricked Dudley, Harry's fat and spoiled cousin, into to eating a cursed toffee which caused Dudley's tongue to swell to the size of a king snake. Yes, getting his aunt and uncle's approval would be difficult indeed.  
  
Harry put the letter and the picture down. Although it should have made him happy it instead made him feel uncomfortable and cheerless. Putting these thoughts out of his mind, he moved onto the package from Hogwarts. Harry couldn't help but notice that it seemed heavier than in years past. He broke the wax seal and tore of the brown paper, revealing a simple cardboard box. Opening the flap he pulled out and began reading the first piece of paper.  
  
HOGWARTS SCHOOL  
  
of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY  
  
  
  
Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore  
  
  
  
(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock,  
  
Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)  
  
  
  
Dear Mr. Potter,  
  
We are please to inform you that your enrollment in our school has been renewed for your fifth year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.  
  
As a special notice for all students, the class of Defence Against the Dark Arts class been removed from the curriculum and replaced with Survival in the Magical World  
  
Term begins September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31.  
  
Yours sincerely,  
  
  
  
  
  
Minerva McGonagall  
  
Minerva McGonagall,  
  
Deputy Headmistress  
  
  
  
Harry reached into the box and pulled out a second sheet. This he recognized as his equipment and book list.  
  
  
  
Course Books  
  
All students should have a copy of each of the following  
  
The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 5) by Miranda Goshawk  
  
An In-Depth History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot  
  
The Powers of a Prophet by Cassandra Vablatsky  
  
The Basics of Magical First Aid by Mathilda Gothreet  
  
Dueling for Dummies by Joseph Quitzle  
  
As the Cauldron Simmers by Arsenius Jigger  
  
An Advanced Guide to Transfiguration: from Ruins to Riches by Emeric Switch  
  
One Thousand MORE Magical Herbs and Fungi by Phyllida Spore  
  
Lost in the Wild by Rufus Jammerson  
  
  
  
  
  
Other Equipment  
  
1 cauldron (steel/pewter alloy, standard size 2)  
  
1 ring or similar piece of small jewelry  
  
1 Class 5 set of potion ingredients (available at nearest apothecary)  
  
1 familiar(owl OR cat OR toad OR rat)  
  
1 suit of leather training armor  
  
Harry stared at the list. He used to getting strange equipment lists from Hogwarts but this one was unusually so. What did he need piece of jewelry for? Why the suit of armor? Why the change in classes from Defense against the Dark Arts to Survival in the Magical World? Questions were flying through Harry's head, questions he wanted answers to, but not so much as to lose sleep over. Harry had acquired a new opinion of the world through Hagrid right before he left for the Dursleys on the Hogwarts Express: "What would come, would come...and he would meet it when it did." The motto had saved him a lot of worry but had not alleviated it. His hand went to his forehead again and began to trace the pattern of his scar once more.  
  
Shaking the box, Harry realized that there was still more inside. He reached in and pulled out a third sheet of paper. He read:  
  
Dear Mr. Potter  
  
We are pleased to inform you that, due to your high academic achievements, feats on the quidditch field, charisma, respect among your peers, and general skill with the Magical Arts, you have been accepted as a prefect. As a prefect you will receive certain privileges and responsibilities such as leadership position within your house.  
  
Enclosed is your rank and insignia as a prefect. You will receive further information as to your position upon arrival at Hogwarts. We hope that this is the beginning of a proud, new chapter for you and your family during your enrollment here at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.  
  
  
  
Respectfully Yours,  
  
  
  
Minerva McGonagall  
  
Minerva McGonagall,  
  
Deputy Headmistress  
  
  
  
P.S. Congratulations, Potter. Well done.  
  
  
  
Harry stared at the parchment, too dumbfounded to for words. He could not believe what he had just read.  
  
"Me?" he squeaked. "A prefect?"  
  
'NO!' he thought to himself. How could he be a prefect? Prefects were the top students in the class, the straight-A students, and the over- achievers. Harry was no dummy but he wasn't a brain either. So why was he a prefect? He molded the question over and over through his head trying to find answer. It just didn't make any sense at all. And most importantly, Harry didn't want to be a prefect! He didn't want to have that on his shoulders! Being a prefect would mean he would have to follow the rules and if he broke any, the punishments would be greater than if he wasn't one. And what would Ron say? Ron had always resented being shunted by his five older brothers, two of which had been prefects, one Head Boy, and all were known and admired by everyone. Harry hadn't really clued into the fact until their 4th year, when, after Harry had become House Champion, their friendship nearly ended. Harry had done his best after that to keep Ron as his friend. But what would this do?  
  
Harry reached into the box one final time and pulled out his prefect pin. He studied it. It was in the shape of a medieval shield, and made out of silver. It was larger than he remembered it being. He walked over to his trunk and slipped the pin, along with the letters from Hogwarts into a small pouch on the inside of the trunk. He then proceeded to put Hermione's letter on his small desk in the corner of the room.  
  
Harry picked up Hermione's photo and took it over to his still open trunk. Reaching down inside, Harry pulled out a large leather-bound book. Opening it, Harry flipped through the pages, which held wizards pictures of his mother and father. Skipping to the back Harry placed the photo on the last page, right next to a newspaper clipping with a picture of the Weasley family, who were also waving happily to him. Harry closed the book and placed it back into the trunk, which he shut tightly. Harry took off his glasses and slipped into bed. Very soon after, he drifted off into sleep, accompanied by very confused thoughts. 


	2. Stronghold

Chapter 1  
  
Stronghold  
  
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Behold a child shall rise up out of the multitude to defeat the Dark Lord and cast him into oblivion for all eternity  
  
Inscription on the Khalaquim, the Stone of Prophets  
  
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Wormtail sat huddled in a corner of the large room, doing his best to stay out of sight of his master. The room was illuminated by a series of glowing globes. The globes cast a ghostly pallor throughout the room. Wormtail looked down at his artificial silver hand, a gift from his master, and silently shuddered. The pale light made the hand glisten and twinkle as Wormtail slowly clenched it into a fist. He feared the hand like he feared his master. Wormtail wrapped his organic hand around the base of the prosthetic one and slowly rubbed the ring where the skin ended and the silver began. His flesh had not taken well to the change and had become infected and festered. The once great gift had become his greatest hindrance.  
  
"You know Wormtail," said a cold voice. The voice emanated from a shadowy spot near the back of the room. "That's never going to heal if you don't stop picking at it."  
  
Wormtail whirled around and fell own upon his hands and knees.  
  
"Please!" cried Wormtail franticly. "I meant no disrespect to you Lord Voldemort!" chair  
  
Voldemort slowly rose from his throne in the recesses of the room. His ornate robes rustled around him as seemed to half walk, half glide across the floor towards the groveling Wormtail. Upon reaching him, Voldemort slowly began to raise his hand.  
  
"Perhaps you would prefer it I took back my gift," said Voldemort quietly.  
  
Hearing this, Wormtail shot up, fear and tears filling his eyes.  
  
"No master!" Wormtail croaked. "I treasure your gifts! I am not worthy of them!"  
  
Voldemort lowered his hand, a small smile starting to grow on his thinly drawn lips. He turned around, and in the same gait as before, returned to his seat. He inhaled deeply and then let out a great sigh.  
  
"That's what I like about you, Wormtail," he said. "You are so easily cowed."  
  
"My purpose is but to serve, my Lord," said Wormtail, whom had not yet risen from the floor. "What may I do to serve you?"  
  
Voldemort narrow eyes became even more so. He studied Wormtail, still groveling, wondering what exactly he should do with him. He could no be given anything important, having proven time and again what a clod he was. Yet, he could not simply be destroyed, for that would cause too much disruption among the new recruits. 'I really should think of something for him to do,' he though to himself. 'He is becoming an annoyance to me and a drain on my new draftees.' Instead of answering Wormtail, Voldemort crossed arms and went back to his plans. The upcoming operation would take much planning, especially since the Ministry would know it was coming. 'Well, that just makes the challenge more fun.' He looked down at the great oak table in front of him, upon which was strewn countless maps, scrolls, compasses, quills, and a solitary blood red dagger which Voldemort used to clean his fingernails. There were books, filled with arcane ruins, inscriptions of power. One book was set apart from the rest, opened to a page with a picture of a cube. It was moving, rotating around its axis on the paper. Voldemort pored himself over his work, analyzing maps which were enchanted to show the movements of troops and ground forces, scrolls which listed the names and abilities of new recruits, and compasses that showed everything from magnetic north and actual north, to vegetation growth and prevailing winds. His thoughts were interrupted by a nock on the door.  
  
"Enter," Voldemort called out.  
  
The door creaked open and a tall strapping man walked. Even though the man was a wizard, he was dressed from head to toe in form-fitting black armor. The man had dark brown eyes which were in sharp contrast to his long blond hair, which was tied back into a regal pony tail. His face was smooth and clean-shaven with a very pronounced chin. He would have been handsome except for the deep shadows around his eyes and his stern looking face.  
  
"General Noish," said Voldemort, who had not taken his eyes away from the map on his desk. "I trust your report for me is a positive one."  
  
"Indeed, m'lord," said General Alec von Noish. His thick German accent plagued his words. "We've just received a communiqué from northern army. It reports a roster of over 3,000 troops, divided into ground forces, air support, and long-range artillery. Similar reports are being received from the other armies.  
  
"Has there been any word from the Dementors?" Voldemort asked, who had still not taken his eyes away from his desk.  
  
At this question, Noish hesitated. Voldemort could sense the fear and anxiety growing in him.  
  
"Has there been any word from the Dementors?" Voldemort repeated, starting to get annoyed.  
  
"M'lord," said Noish. "The Dementors state that they do not stand with us nor against us."  
  
At this, Voldemort finally raised his head.  
  
"What?" asked Voldemort.  
  
"The Dementors say that they have chosen no affiliation as of yet," said Noish. "They feel it is in there own best interests that they stay on the sidelines until they can tell which side is best set for their needs."  
  
Voldemort closed his eyes and sat back in his chair. Now, that was unfortunate. The Dementors were one of his strongest allies. They should be on his side. But why were they holding back. He restrained the urge to kill the general for bringing him such a vexing report. He put a bony hand to his face and began to rub his temples.  
  
"This is an unfortunate setback," he said. "But no matter." And with that he returned to his work.  
  
But General Noish did not move. He simply stood there, waiting, unsure whether to ask the question that was plaguing the minds of all the recruits under Voldemort's control. Eventually, Voldemort put down his quill and lifted his eyes to the general.  
  
"Is there something else, Noish?" asked Voldemort.  
  
Noish began to shift his weight nervously back and forth between his feet. Finally, he built up his nerve and inquired.  
  
"When are you going to send me north, so that I may lead the army and commence with the attack?"  
  
Voldemort was impressed. He had not expected the question to come so soon. He had expected his subordinates to follow him blindly into possible death. Noish had a great ambition, Voldemort knew, but he would never think to challenge Voldemort's orders. Voldemort put his hands behind his head and sat back in his chair and studied the general.  
  
"You will not lead the attack," he said simply.  
  
This took Noish by surprise.  
  
"M'lord," Noish said perplexedly. "Have I done something that would make you feel that I am unworthy of the position of leadership? Have I not proven myself in the previous war?"  
  
"You have proven yourself," Voldemort said quietly. "I know your mettle. Bur for what is to come I need someone special. I will need you elsewhere. As for the attack, it will come when I say it will. Now please leave me."  
  
"My lord," Noish said, making a sweeping bow. He turned around and strode out the door. After closing the door, he put his hand to his head. After deciding it was better not to worry about what the Master was planning, he left for as strong drink and a good night's sleep. Inside the room, Wormtail was still huddled in the corner, afraid to even move. After a few, minutes Voldemort slowly turned his head to him.  
  
"You may return to your quarters, Wormtail," said Voldemort.  
  
Wormtail, upon hearing this, scrambled to his feet and made a quick, clumsy bow.  
  
"Always in your service, M'lord." he said and hurriedly walked out of the room, quietly closing the door behind him.  
  
After making sure that there was no one in the room, Voldemort rose from his seat. He walked over to a small table, around which two chairs had been placed. On the table, an ornate non-wizard chess set was arranged, ready to be played. The lighter side had great knights, warriors, kings, queens, mature wizards for bishops, and young wizards for pawns. The darker side mirrored the other in black, with giants, dragons, and Dementors. Voldemort sat down behind the dark side and stared at the board. Very slowly and intently, he reached out a moved a small black pawn forward two spaces.  
  
"Your move, Dumbledore," he said with a small smile on his face. 


	3. Invitation

Chapter 3  
  
Invitation  
  
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Courage is never to let your actions be influenced by your fears.  
  
Arthur Koestler  
  
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The next morning dawned bright and early. Harry woke early, having only received three additional hours of sleep after his early morning wakening. Harry left his room, Hermione's letter in hand, and slowly stumbled down the steps, still half-asleep. When he reached the breakfast room, there were his Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia. Harry could tell that Dudley was upstairs still, due to the loud snoring that emanated from his cousin's room. Uncle Vernon was sipping at coffee and reading the sport's page while Aunt Petunia was silently frying bacon on the stove. Harry new this was the best possible time to ask, seeing as how Uncle Vernon was in a good mood since his favorite soccer team was in the lead. Without a word, Harry walked over to his uncle and placed Hermione's letter next to Uncle Vernon and took a step back, waiting.  
  
Uncle Vernon turned his eyes from the paper to look at Harry. Then at the letter. Then at Harry again. Harry could hear his own heart beating, as nervous as he was. Uncle Vernon slowly raised his hand, lifted the letter, and began to read. By this time, Aunt Petunia, still holding the bacon- filled skillet, had turned around and was staring at her husband and nephew. A few moments later, Uncle Vernon lowered the parchment and looked at Harry. The two of them locked gazes, daring the other to blink. Harry could feel his knees wobbling. Finally, it was Harry who spoke up.  
  
"Well?" Harry asked simply.  
  
"Well, what?" Uncle Vernon returned.  
  
"Can I go?" Harry inquired.  
  
Uncle Vernon said nothing. Instead he waved his hand, his eyes still on Harry, and beckoned Aunt Petunia to come over. Aunt Petunia walked over and Uncle Vernon handed her the letter. Petunia took it slowly and read the note quickly. When she finished, she joined Uncle Vernon, the both of them staring at Harry, who stared right back.  
  
"Can I?" Harry asked once more.  
  
"Well, of course you can," said Uncle Vernon.  
  
"Really?" Harry exclaimed.  
  
"No," said Uncle Vernon quickly.  
  
"Why not?" said Harry, unable to control the raising of his voice.  
  
Aunt Petunia answered this: "Do you really think we would allow this, especially after what happened to Dudley last time!" Dudley was still wary of toffees.  
  
"That's why Hermione said that she should come pick me up instead of the Weasleys," said Harry, slowly clenching and unclenching his hands. "I haven't done anything wrong this summer, and I think I deserve this. Besides, Hermione's parent's are Muggles, so they can't use-"  
  
Uncle Vernon eye's widened and Harry stopped. No one was allowed to use the word "magic" in the Dursley household, and Harry didn't want to make his predicament any worse.  
  
"...well, they can't do that, and Hermione can't do it outside of school, so there's no way anything could happen."  
  
Harry could see his aunt and uncle rolling the notion around inside their heads, looking for something to use in their defense. Harry decided that now was time to use his trump card.  
  
"Or maybe," said Harry. "I could just have my godfather."  
  
Harry watched in silent delight as the color drained away from Uncle Vernon's and Aunt Petunia's faces. His aunt and uncle were deathly afraid of Harry's legal godfather, whom his aunt and uncle new to be an escaped convict out on the run.  
  
After several moments, Uncle Vernon's mouth began to work again. He cleared his throat violently, causing Harry to grimace.  
  
"All right," said Uncle Vernon. "You can go see your little girlfriend. But when she and her parents come here, there better be no abnormalities, or it will come out of your rear."  
  
Harry couldn't believe it. Harry ran up the stairs, taking them two at a time, to his small room. He threw opened the door and plopped down on his bead. A few seconds later, he jumped out of his bed and leapt to his desk and began writing a letter to Hermione  
  
Dear Hermione,  
  
My aunt and uncle say it is okay for me to visit. Write back to me as soon as possible because I need a time and date for you to come pick me up.  
  
Sincerely,  
  
Harry  
  
Harry tied the letter onto Hedwig, and sent her out the window to deliver his message. Harry was so unbelievably happy, he dared anyone in the world to try to ruin his good mood. Of course someone would take him up on his challenge.  
  
  
  
The next day, Harry was sitting in his room, polishing up of his History of Magic Summer Essay. Harry had decided to write his as an account of the numerous occasions when the existence of wizards had almost become known worldwide. The world of wizards kept themselves quite secret, and entire sections of the Ministry of Magic were devoted to the simple matter of keeping it secret. Apparently, most of the more recent ones had been during the Cold War, while the Soviets were interrogating the entire Russian populace and keeping strict tabs on everyone. The government of Magic Russia had had numerous close-calls. Harry had become obsessed with the idea of how much effort was put into keeping such a colossal secret under wraps.  
  
Harry was studying the details of goblin uprising in Siberia in 1973, when Dudley half-strolled, half-waddled into his room. Dudley had a wicked smile, the one he normally gave Harry when he was about to torture him for something.  
  
"Well," said Dudley. "I hear you're going to be having some friend pick you up."  
  
Harry didn't raise his head to acknowledge Dudley and instead kept his eyes firmly affixed on the pages of his book  
  
"And she's a girl," Dudley said, putting emphasis on the last word.  
  
Harry was now practically going through a mantra of the different significant dates of the uprising.  
  
"Is she your guuuurlfriend?" asked Dudley, with such a moronic tone of voice that only he could accomplish.  
  
And still Harry continued to ignore his cousin, which only made Dudley more eager.  
  
"Oh, wait," said Dudley, pretending to slap his head. "This is you we're talking about. Who would want to be your girlfriend? I mean, really."  
  
Harry had had enough. He shut his book and stared Dudley in the eyes which such an intensity that Dudley involuntarily took a step back.  
  
"Well, at least I don't jiggle when I brush my teeth," said Harry. "Oh wait, that's right, you don't brush your teeth, do you?"  
  
Dudley went red in the face. He raised his pudgy fist, as if to hit Harry. In response, Harry lifted his hand and began to wiggle his finger from side to side.  
  
"Tsk, tsk, tsk," said Harry. "You wouldn't want to have some other horrible charm cast on you, would you?"  
  
At this, Dudley's beet-red face went pale. He vividly remembered having grown a pig tail(a gift from Hagrid), as well as the Ton-Tongue- Toffee that the Weasley twins had given him. Dudley slowly lowered his fist.  
  
"Now there's a good boy," said Harry. He had no idea where he was getting the nerve to speak to Dudley like this, but he liked it. He liked it a lot. "Now, get out of my room."  
  
Dudley spun around and waddled out of the room like a penguin. Harry couldn't help but let a small grin form on his lips as he remembered the shocked look on Dudley's face. However, Dudley's interruption had really broken Harry's train of thought. Try as he might, he could no longer keep his mind on the words in his book. In exasperation, Harry shut the book and curled up in his bed for a nap.  
  
  
  
Harry's short respite was soon interrupted by a bellow from downstairs. Apparently, Dudley had gone and squeaked at his parents. Although Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia were deathly afraid of both Harry and his godfather, they would not sit around and allow Harry to harass their son. And so they confined Harry to his room, only allowing for short bathroom breaks every few hours and small meals. For Harry, it seemed very reminiscent of the summer before his second year, before the Weasley brothers had busted Harry out. Harry had not expected the "jail break" that year. But this time things were quite different for Harry.  
  
Harry began counting down the days until Hermione would arrive to rescue him. He sorely wished that they had set an earlier date. Instead, Harry would have to wait another two weeks in confinement.  
  
He spent most of his time studying. Never much of a bookworm, Harry began to devour his old school books, analyzing the information they had never reached in school and reanalyzing the information they had. In fact, the only books he hadn't read again were all the books written by Gilderoy Lockhart, a phony whom Harry had unmasked in his second year. Harry had discovered that the pages from Lockhart's books made a good substitute for the old newsprint he normally put on the bottom of Hedwig's cage. And it was much more fulfilling.  
  
Harry also spent his time writing to his friends, who were now his only source of information on news in the magical world, now that Harry no longer had a newspaper available to him. Ron made sure to keep Harry up to date on the International Quidditch World Cup(since this was the only section of the Daily Prophet that Ron read), and Hermione provided Harry with newspaper clippings of current events. Harry wrote letters back to both of them, but did not mention that he was a prefect.  
  
Slowly the days ticked by the day came when Hermione would come to pick Harry up. 


	4. A Surprise for Harry

Chapter 4  
  
A Surprise for Harry  
  
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A friend is a gift you give to yourself.  
  
Robert Louis Stevenson  
  
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Harry woke before all the other inhabitants in the Dursley home that morning. His trunk was already packed for the trip ahead and Hedwig was secured safely in her cage. Harry left his room and went down to the kitchen for a small breakfast, making sure to walk quietly in front of his aunt and uncle's room.  
  
By the time Harry finished his breakfast of cereal and orange juice, his aunt and uncle had woken up and were slowly making their way downstairs. Uncle Vernon was dressed in his work suit with his favorite red tie and Aunt Petunia was wearing a simple house dress. Dudley's snoring could still be heard from upstairs. Neither Uncle Vernon nor Aunt Petunia said anything to Harry or each other. Harry, feeling very uncomfortable in such a quiet atmosphere, slipped out of the kitchen and upstairs to his room. There, he waited, silently pacing the room, until someone knocked on the front door.  
  
Harry ran out of his room and downstairs towards the front door. He ran past Uncle Vernon, who was walking slowly towards the door as well, and got to it before his uncle. Harry threw open the latch, unbolted the lock, and swung open the door...  
  
...and was greeted by the milk man.  
  
Harry's shoulders slumped. He turned around and went back up to his room. He sat down on his bed, his right hand impulsively straying up to his forehead to rub his scar.  
  
'I really need to relax,' he thought to himself. 'Jumping to every sound that I heard as though it's Hermione isn't going to make her get here any faster.'  
  
Strangely enough, just Harry was finishing this thought, the door bell rang again. And just like before, Harry rushed down to open the door. He threw open the latch, unbolted the lock, and swung open the door...  
  
There was Hermione, a smile on her face.  
  
"Hey Harry," said Hermione. "Are you ready to go?"  
  
"Uh, yeah," stammered Harry. "Let me go get my stuff."  
  
Once Harry had retrieved his luggage and had stowed it in the Granger's car, Harry was ready to leave. However, Hermione's parents seemed to think it necessary to introduce themselves to the Dursleys. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia were straight-lipped as the Grangers walked towards the house with a large gift basket in their hands.  
  
"I hope you enjoy these," said Mr. Granger, lifting the cover of the basket. Inside were several dozen boxes of sugar free candy and snacks. Hermione's parents were both dentists.  
  
After names, nods, gifts, and handshakes had been exchanged, Harry climbed into the back of Grangers' car with Hermione. As the car pulled out of the driveway and began to travel down Privet Drive, Harry began to frown in confusion.  
  
"What is it?" asked Hermione.  
  
"I just don't understand," Harry said. "In the past five years, I don't think that my departure from the Dursleys has ever been that uneventful."  
  
Hermione and Harry turned their heads and looked at each other for several moments before both of them burst out laughing.  
  
Several hours later, the car pulled into the driveway of the Granger household. Harry got out of the car and proceeded to the trunk to get his luggage. Although Mr. Granger had offered to carry his luggage for him, Harry had denied the offer. Now, Harry was beginning to wish he had accepted, having forgotten just how heavy the large trunk was. He finally dragged the bulky thing to the front door where his hosts waited patiently. It was not until Harry arrived on the porch that Mr. Granger opened the door.  
  
"HAPPY BIRTHDAY HARRY!"  
  
Harry threw his hands to his ears in the shock of the deafening cry. Looking inside the house, Harry saw the entire Weasley family, smiling and wearing party hats. The walls were decked with banners and streamers which also read "Happy Birthday Harry!" Ron rushed out and tackled Harry in a giant bear hug, causing Harry to stagger under Ron's greater weight. The Grangers were ushering Harry into the house, where everyone began to clap and cheer.  
  
"How's it going, old chap?" asked Fred Weasley.  
  
"Haven't spent all summer with your nose in a book, I hope?" chimed in Fred's twin brother George, who was clapping Harry on the back.  
  
Glitter and confetti were streaming in the air. Feeling something fall on his shoulders and head, Harry looked to see that the twins had put a small, green crown and cape on Harry, emblazoned with the phrase, "Harry's #1!" Off to the side, Harry could see that even Percy, the quietest of the lot, was cheering loudly and clapping his hands.  
  
Presently the noise quieted down. Everybody looked at Harry, waiting to see what he would say.  
  
"Uh..." stammered Harry.  
  
"Go on," squeaked Ginny from behind her mother.  
  
"Um, this might not be the best thing to say under the circumstances- " started Harry.  
  
"Oh come, George and I have a bet over what you're gonna say," interrupted Fred. "Go on and get on with it."  
  
Harry brought a hand up to his head and began to scratch it. He could feel himself turning red.  
  
"Well, what I was going to say was..." Harry said very quietly. Everyone leaned close to hear what he would say. "Today's not my birthday."  
  
For second, everyone kept the smile on their faces. Then their mouths hit the floor.  
  
"WHAT!?" yelled Mrs. Weasley. Her lower lip was trembling. "Well, when is your birthday?"  
  
"Three days from now," Harry said, his head down. Harry sorely wished he had his invisibility cloak on. "Who...who told you it was today?"  
  
Slowly everyone turned their heads to look at the culprit.  
  
Ron's face was, by this time, almost as red as his hair.  
  
"I thought it was today!" he said indignantly.  
  
"You should have made sure!" yelled his mother.  
  
"What were you thinking?!" added Mr. Weasley.  
  
Everyone was either yelling or shaking a finger at Ron. No, actually, everyone was just yelling at him. Behind the group, Harry's shoulders began to shake as a fit of laughter came over him. It grew and grew in intensity until everyone turned to look at Harry.  
  
"What's so funny?" asked Hermione.  
  
"It's...it's..." Harry said slowly through tears of laughter. "It's just to funny."  
  
By this time, Harry was laughing hysterically. Then entire assembly stared at him like he was mad. Then slowly they began to laugh with him, and Ron's fault was soon forgotten.  
  
The party went on as though it was Harry's real birthday. For many hours, they sang, laughed, cheered, played, and ate, and ate, and ate, and ate Mrs. Wesley's homemade food. And there was plenty left over. The festivity played on long into the night, until the laughs of joy drowned out the sounds of the night.  
  
At some point in all the hubbub, Harry drew Ron and Hermione away from the rest of the group.  
  
"What is it Harry?" asked Ron through a mouthful of cake.  
  
"I just wanted to tell you guys thanks," said Harry, a huge smile on his face.  
  
"Ah, don't mention it," said Ron.  
  
"What are friends for?" said Hermione, who had a large amount of frosting smeared on her lips.  
  
Harry continued to smile at them until he could no longer hold back. He grabbed his two friends around the neck and pulled them into a group hug. The three of them cried and laughed until a bright flash revealed to them that Mr. Granger was snapping photos. He handed the Polaroid to Harry, who ran over to his luggage and slipped it into his photo album. Harry looked at the picture, which was beginning to become clearer, and let his aching jaws pull his lips into another monster of a smile.  
  
In all the happiness and joy in the household, none of them could know that darkness was gathering on the horizon. 


	5. Recruiting

Chapter 5  
  
Recruiting  
  
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Which is better? To be a slave in Heaven, or a king in Hell?  
  
Playing God  
  
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Craig turned down a dark alley in an attempt to throw off his pursuers, who had been chasing him for several blocks now. Craig still didn't know the exact reason why they had singled him out of the crowd. His pursuers were a small local gang. They didn't play a large part in the scheme of gang warfare. But they were much bigger than Craig, and that was enough reason for him to run.  
  
They alley was cold and drab. Craig spun around several times to see whether they were still chasing him. When he saw no one turn down the alleyway, he let out a sigh of relief. He turned around...  
  
And came face-to-face with the entire gang.  
  
"You're on our territory, punk," said their leader. He was the tallest and had a shaved head. He had a multitude of scars from many fights. This was not a person to take lightly.  
  
"I didn't see any signs," Craig said defiantly.  
  
The leader reached into his back pocket and pulled out a small and black switchblade. He pressed a button on it and a small shiny blade appeared on the end.  
  
"Here's your sign," said the leader, waving the blade in front of Craig's face. He began to walk towards Craig. Craig remained still until the leader was upon him. Craig could hear his heart beating and his pulse racing. The leader towered over him, and gave him a toothy grin.  
  
"Got anything to say?" the leader asked.  
  
Craig lifted his foot and kicked the leader in a very vulnerable area. The leader crumbled, dropped the knife, and began to groan. Behind him, several of the other members drew out knives and brass knuckles.  
  
"Not really," said Craig simply, wishing he was as calm as his voice.  
  
The gang circled him. The yelled taunts and jeers at him. Craig was breathing hard and fast. He had no earthly idea of what to do.  
  
Suddenly, the gang stopped circling him.  
  
"GET 'IM!" yelled one of them.  
  
The gang leapt at Craig, just as he shut his eyes and raised his arms over his head to shield himself from the blows...  
  
Then there was a blinding flash of light. Craig slowly opened his eyes. He looked around and saw that he was on a fire escape. Looking down, he could see that he was now several stories up. The gang members all lay in some stage of injury. Many of them had burn wounds, several were nursing broken limbs, and one of the more severely burned ones lay very still. The whole gang had been tossed back several feet.  
  
Craig slowly raised himself and began to climb the fire escape to the roof of the building, leaving the injured down below. He reached the top and began to walk across the rooftop towards his shelter.  
  
"Well I must say I'm impressed," said a cold voice behind him.  
  
Craig spun around. There stood a dark and ominous figure. He was cloaked in black robes, and all that was visible of him was his pale head, which was bald. His eyes were tight slits, and they had a slight red tinge to them. Craig felt himself falter underneath those eyes. He made a move to flee.  
  
"Oh, I don't think so," said the man. He waved a small stick at his side that Craig had not seen before.  
  
When Craig turned to run and immediately stopped. In front of him stood a tall brick wall, which he had not seen before, now blocking his path. He whirled around to face the dark man.  
  
"Who are you? What do you want?" Craig asked frantically.  
  
The dark man began to walk slowly towards Craig.  
  
"I am Lord Voldemort," he said with a slight hiss in his chilling voice.  
  
"What kinda stupid name is that?" Craig asked.  
  
"You would be wise to mind your tongue," Voldemort answered. "And to answer your other question, I want your help."  
  
Craig stared intently at him.  
  
"What are you talking about?" Craig asked.  
  
"Do you remember what you did down there on the street?" Voldemort asked.  
  
"Whadda you mean?" asked Craig. "I don't know what you're talking about."  
  
"Don't deny it. You know exactly what I mean," Voldemort answered. "What you did done there was magic. You are a wizard. And you will help me."  
  
Craig couldn't help but laugh. Him, a wizard? No way! "If I was a wizard," he started. "Then why"  
  
"Why would your parents have thrown you away like garbage?" Voldemort finished Craig's sentence.  
  
Craig stared in disbelief.  
  
"How did you know that?" he asked. "What do you know about me and my parents?"  
  
"I know a lot about you," said Voldemort, a small smile forming on his lips. "As I was saying, you are a wizard. An untrained and young one perhaps, but a wizard nonetheless, and one with incredible potential, I believe. That is why I want your help."  
  
"Forget it," Craig said. He walked past Voldemort, towards the fire escape. He didn't want to help anybody.  
  
"I know you hate your parents," Voldemort called out. Craig stopped in his tracks. "I know that they threw you out of the house when you were only seven. I know that you have been wondering the streets, picking up and eating what other people throw away. I know how you scrounged to survive in a world that has all but forgotten you, and that you've lived that way for the past eight years. And I know that you want to get revenge against your parents. I can help you get revenge."  
  
Craig slowly turned around, his mouth slightly open.  
  
"And if you help me get back at my parents," asked Craig. "What do you want from me?"  
  
"Nothing but your undying loyalty to me," said Voldemort. "I will help you and train you. But you belong to me."  
  
Craig stared at Voldemort, contemplating the prospect. Craig lowered his head and began to think of his parents; of the fights, the beatings, and how he had been cast away. He remembered the cold nights on the street, the sickness, the pain of watching his friends die of hunger, and fearing what the bleak future would bring next. Here was a way to control that bleak future.  
  
Craig lifted his head to look at Voldemort. Slowly, he nodded his head in assent.  
  
  
  
John walked down the dark city streets in unison with his gang, the Serpents. John and his older brother had joined up with the gang when their mother had been killed in a drive-by. Their father had left them years before that. Now the gang was their family- their only family.  
  
"How are you feeling little buddy?" asked John's older brother Michael. Michael was tall, muscular, and would have been handsome, minus the large scar on his chin. He was highly respected in the gang, and had been chosen as their spokesman for the rumble.  
  
"I'm a little nervous," John said, rubbing his hands together in the cold night air.  
  
Michael was worried. John had never been nervous in previous fights, even when he had been younger. For him to be so now was out of character. He put a reassuring hand on his little brother's shoulder.  
  
"Don't worry, Johnny," he said. "It's gonna be just like every other fight. Just stick to the little ones and-"  
  
"It's not that," John interrupted. "I'm not afraid of them. I...I just feel like something bad is gonna happen."  
  
Michael looked John hard in the face. He knew his brother made up for his lack of brawn with brains- and he could have gone far in life under different circumstances. Michael had muscles and good looks, but not much intellect. It was probably due to this that he made such a stupid mistake.  
  
"Here," Michael said, reaching into his back pocket. He drew out a butterfly knife, which had been freshly sharpened, and handed it to John.  
  
John didn't take it; he just stared at it, as though it was some harbinger of doom. As the moments passed and John made no action, Michael became impatient. He reached for John's hand, lifted it up and slapped the sheathed blade onto his outstretched palm. John just stared blankly at it.  
  
"Just don't do anything stupid, okay?" Michael said.  
  
They continued on until they came to the designated meeting place. It was an abandoned basketball court on the disputed border of the two gangs. Each gang claimed the territory for themselves and this rumble was to settle the dispute. It was a public area, so they decided that no weapons were allowed in order to prevent bloodshed. But John had broken the rules. John had a weapon.  
  
John's gang arrived early. They arranged themselves around one side of the court, with Michael in the center, waiting for the opposing gang, the Stingers, to arrive. Fifteen minutes later, the Stingers walked out of the shadows and onto the blacktop of the court. Their leader, a stout teen with a mohawk, walked over and stood in front of Michael. The two stared at each other, waiting for one the other to say something. Finally, Michael spoke.  
  
"Let's get this over with," said Michael. Michael was always simple and straightforward with such things. He threw a punch at the leader of the Stingers and the rumble began.  
  
John did as he was told, he picked out one of the smaller ones and started fighting. His opponent was about his age, a little on the skinny side, and very quick. John spent most of his time blocking and dodging Skinny's jabs and swipes, occasionally throwing in a swing or two. Out of the corner of his eyes, John could see that a Michael and Mohawk were still duking it out. The others stayed out of their way to give them room. Michael was not doing well. John could see blood pouring from Michael's broken nose and split lips. Mohawk lifted up his fists and brought them down together on Michael's head with a sickening thud. Michael crumbled.  
  
"NNNOOOOO!!!!" John screamed. He felt his blood boil as he threw Skinny aside and rushed towards Mohawk. He clenched his teeth and thundered forward to help his brother Reaching into his pocket, John brought out the knife. There was a flash and to Mohawk's amazement, the blade became bathed in flame. Not only that, but it extended from only five inches to almost three feet. The knife now appeared to be a fiery sword. John was unaware of this, his thoughts were only with his brother and Mohawk. He raised the knife and brought it heavily down on Mohawk's left shoulder. Mohawk, utterly shocked, made no move to defend himself as the blade cut threw his chest, burning the flesh along with it. Mohawk fell under the weight of the attack.  
  
Others had noticed the flash and had turned to see. The stared, dumbfounded, as John brought the sword down on Mohawk. No one said a thing.  
  
As soon as it appeared the fiery sword turned back into a simple knife in John's hand. The blade was covered in blood, as was John's hand. The two bodies at his feet were still, and a pool of blood and the stench of charred flesh came from Mohawk. John fell to his knees and lifted Michael's head into his lap. His older brother's eyes were closed and he wasn't breathing. John doubled over and began to sob.  
  
After several minutes, John raised his head and saw that everyone else had left. Getting to his feet, John ran. He didn't think about a destination, he just ran; tears still streamed from his eyes. He did not look to see where he was going and it was quite a shock when he ran into someone.  
  
John fell sprawled on the pavement. Over him stood a tall man wearing a black cloak, a bald head, and a small smile on his face.  
  
"Well," he said. "That was quite a fireworks display."  
  
John scrambled to his feet and tried to turn and flee, but something made his legs refuse to obey him. John stood rooted on the spot, staring at the pale man.  
  
"Well, John," the pale man said. "What are you going to do now?"  
  
"Who are you?" John demanded.  
  
The tight-lipped smile on the man's face grew broader.  
  
"My name is Lord Voldemort," he said. "And I've come to help you."  
  
"Who says I need help?" asked John defiantly.  
  
"Come now," said Voldemort. "Do I really need to answer that? You've just killed someone in an illegal gang fight. You have no one to run to. The police will arrest you for murder, the Stingers will kill you for killing their leader, your own gang will turn against you for using a weapon in the fight, and your whole family is either dead or doesn't care about you."  
  
If tears had not been already coming out of John's eyes, they would have by now. John felt weak in the knees, but the invisible force kept his legs straight. He shut his eyes and turned his head, trying to avoid Voldemort's gaze  
  
"Do you know what you also did?" asked Voldemort. John slowly turned his head. "You used magic. You are a wizard."  
  
John's brow furrowed.  
  
"I know you don't believe me," said Voldemort. "But I promise you it's true. You've been a wizard ever since you were born, but your powers have only recently surfaced. They warned you about this fight. Your power has helped you to avenge your brother. I will train you. I will teach."  
  
John's eyes widened. He saw a glimmer of hope. But a thought occurred to him.  
  
"What do you want in return?" he asked Voldemort, who grinned again.  
  
"I knew you were smart," said Voldemort approvingly. "I want your help and your loyalty. No more, no less." Voldemort stared intently into John's eyes, waiting for his answer. He contemplated his situation and weighed his choices. Voldemort was right. He didn't have a family anymore. What choice did he have?  
  
"OK," he said.  
  
"Very good," said Voldemort, and John felt the pressure around his legs dissipate.  
  
Voldemort walked past John off into the shadows. Waiting a second to think about what he had gotten himself into, John followed after his new master.  
  
It was not until several days later that John wondered how Voldemort had known his name.  
  
  
  
Claire held her face in her hands, torrential tears streaming from her eyes. She sat on the ragged bed and listened to the muffled screams from the adjacent room. Her step-dad had found yet another reason to fight with her mother, and they had been arguing for some time now. She hated her step-father, and she hated her mother for marrying him. She could not stand it anymore.  
  
Claire got up and went into the hallway and began to walk towards her parent's bedroom. She faltered when she heard the shattering of glass come from behind the closed door, but continued until she stood in front of the shut doorway. She remained there, trying to calm down, but only succeeded in becoming more enraged. Finally, her emotions burst. She threw open the door and stormed in.  
  
"STOP!!!" Claire bellowed. Her parents froze.  
  
Claire's mother, Susan, sat huddled in the corner, her eyes wide and fearful. Jack, Claire's step-father stood over her, holding a vase in his hands. Claire could see the shards of a shattered lamp around her mother, who know sported several cuts on her face. Blood was beginning to stream from a large gash on her right cheek. It would certainly leave a scar. Jack, recovered from the initial shock, turned his anger upon Claire.  
  
"What the hell are you doing outta bed?!" he yelled.  
  
"Leave her alone." Claire retorted, weakly.  
  
"Who do you think you are, you-" Jack started.  
  
"SHUT UP!" Claire screamed. " I HATE YOU!! I ALWAYS HAVE HATED YOU AND I WANT YOU GONE!!"  
  
"Why you little-" Jack never finished this sentence.  
  
The vase in Jack's hand flew out in front of him, pausing in mid-air before coming back to shatter in his face. He yelled out in pain, and threw his hands to his face to cover the scrapes and cuts. It was then that Claire began to feel something, like an electrical charge, flowing through the room. The charge increased until it became a visible stream of energy coursing through the room. Finally, when it seemed most unstable, it plunged into Jack's body. Lighting coursed through him, crackling through his hair and along his fingers. The display lasted several seconds before it suddenly ended. Jack stood in the center of the room for a few seconds before falling face down on the floor. His skin was charred and blackened and a horrible stench filled the room. Both Claire and Susan were silent, completely stunned by what they had just seen. Then Susan began to scream.  
  
Claire ran over to try and calm her mother down, but to no avail. Susan shoved Claire away, jumped up, and ran out of the house, leaving her behind. She stood in silence, not fully realizing what had just happened. Her first thought was whether her mother would be safe out on the streets at night. Then the full realization of what had happened hit her full force. She panicked and ran to her room to pack a bag. When she was packing, she heard a soft knock at the door. Claire spun around and stared at the intruder.  
  
He was tall and thin, and was garbed in a black robe. His head was bald and his face was smooth and taut. He wore a small grin on his lips and he was leaning on the doorway in a leisurely fashion.  
  
"So, how did it feel?" he asked. He began to walk slowly into the room. Claire's hand shot out and grabbed a letter opener on her desk. She held it in front of her like a dagger. The man lifted his arms in mock surrender and halted. "Are you going to kill me without answering my question? That's very rude."  
  
"Who are you?" Claire demanded.  
  
"Someone to be feared," the man said.  
  
"What's your name?" Claire asked.  
  
"Voldemort," he said.  
  
"Voldemort?"  
  
"Voldemort."  
  
"And what are you doing in my house?" Claire asked.  
  
"My, aren't we full of questions," said Voldemort. He raised a long smooth stick in his right hand and gave it a flick. Immediately, the letter opener flew across the room and lodged itself deeply into the wall. "Ahh, that's better. As I was saying, my name is Lord Voldemort. I am here to help you. But first, answer my question. How did it feel?"  
  
"How did what feel?" Claire asked innocently.  
  
"Oh, don't play the fool," Voldemort said. "How did feel to kill the man you hate?"  
  
"What are you talking about?" she asked. "I didn't kill him. It was just some freak accident."  
  
"Oh, that was no accident," he said. "That was you. You did it. It was entirely your fault."  
  
"How could I have done that?" she asked.  
  
"How about you answer one of my questions for a change?" Voldemort asked impatiently  
  
Claire considered the possibility. If it was her fault, she didn't feel bad about it. In fact she was almost happy. That horrible man was out of her life now and it was for the best.  
  
"I'm happy," Claire said.  
  
"That's not what I asked," said Voldemort. "I asked how you felt, not how you feel. How did it feel to kill your father."  
  
"He wasn't my father," Claire said. Voldemort said nothing. Claire thought of the scene, the feel of the energy flowing though the room, crackle of the lightning, watching the vase shatter in Jack's face. Finally, Claire whispered an answer, barely audible.  
  
"What was that?" inquired Voldemort.  
  
"I SAID IT FELT GOOD TO KILL HIM!!!!" Claire screamed.  
  
There was a long pause. It was Voldemort who broke the silence.  
  
"That's what I thought," he said, smiling to himself "I'm going to make you an offer. Either you come with me, and I help teach how to use the power you just displayed, or you stay here and…deal with this."  
  
Claire considered the options before answering. "If I help you, what do you want in return?"  
  
"What I wanted from the others," said Voldemort. "I want your loyalty and your help."  
  
"What others?" she asked.  
  
Voldemort didn't answer her question. They stood, looking at each other. It was Voldemort who broke the silence. When he spoke, it was almost more to himself than to Claire.  
  
"You're going to help me conquer the world," he said.  
  
Claire laughed at this. What an absurd idea! If he was going to take over the world, why would he need my help? she thought to herself.  
  
"Because you're more powerful than you can possibly imagine," Voldemort answered. Claire's stared at him with slack-jawed amazement.  
  
"How did you know what I was thinking?" she demanded.  
  
"Magic," Voldemort said simply. "Come with me and I'll instruct you in its ways, for what you just did was magic. Come with me and you can attain vengeance against the world that shuns you and against everyone you hate." He waited a few moments "How does that sound to you?"  
  
Claire stood silently, pondering the possibilities. Finally, she made a decision.  
  
"Do you mind if I finish packing first?" she asked quietly. Voldemort smiled and shook his head. He walked silently towards the door of her room and waited for her. Claire turned around and continued packing. She was almost finish when she heard Voldemort whisper something to himself.  
  
"Prepare yourself, Dumbledore." 


	6. Revelation

Chapter 6  
  
Revelation  
  
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Waterloo: N., 1. (literal) site of the final battle of the Napoleonic Wars where Napoleon and his army were finally defeated.  
  
2. (figurative language) metaphor referring to a final defeat after a long guest, usually of conquest.  
  
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The Grangers insisted that Harry stay with them until the school year started again. Harry did not want to impede upon the Granger's privacy but Harry certainly did not want to spend the rest of the summer with the Dursleys. Ron and Ginny had wanted for Harry to go back to the Burrow with them. However, Mrs. Weasley had decided against it as a punishment for Ron, who had not done as well on his grades as his mother had hoped. And so Harry occupied the spare guest room on the second floor.  
  
By the day after the party, the Weasleys had cleared out of the house and Hermione's parent had set out on the grueling task of cleaning the house up after them. While the adults were slaving away, Harry and Hermione spent most of their time either sitting outside and talking, or doing their homework. Their conversations were far-ranging in topic. Sometimes they would speak about schoolwork and other times they would wonder what their other friends from school were doing. Hermione spent a lot of time describing her summer trip with Victor Krum, although Harry noticed that she did not mention him in excess; she mostly spoke of the countryside and the amazing places she had seen. Sometimes Harry would talk about how the various Quidditch teams were faring, although Hermione was never an avid conversationalist on this topic. For the most part though, Harry kept very quiet, leaving most of the talking to Hermione. He still had not told either Hermione or Ron that he was a Prefect.  
  
On a cool Sunday afternoon, two weeks away from the beginning of the new school year, Hermione and Harry decided to go for a walk. Despite the fact that he had been living with the Grangers for some time now, Harry had still not had much of a chance to see the surrounding city. They set off down the sidewalk at a brisk pace with a light breeze at their backs, and walked down the sidewalk past the rows of brick houses. The trees bent over them in such a way that they were veiled within a cool shadow. As usual, Hermione did most of the talking. She was describing a frozen lake near Victor's home that they had gone boating on.  
  
"Oh, and it was so beautiful!" she said. "The water was crystal clear and the mountain air was so crisp and cool that it made me want to go swimming in the lake. Of course we didn't, that would have been out of the question, considering the temperature of the water, but oh! It was so wonderful! I wish I could go back again, and this time I…Harry, what is it?"  
  
Harry had paused in his walking several feet behind her and was staring at an old beaten up mailbox that she hadn't noticed before.  
  
"Oh, my God," Harry said incredulously. "It's impossible."  
  
"What is it?" Hermione repeated, slowly walking towards Harry, and she looked down at the mailbox. The sight took her breath away.  
  
Written on the mailbox in dirty but legible bold-faced letters was the name: Potter.  
  
"I…I…" Hermione stammered. She simply could not think of anything to say.  
  
"Oh, my God," Harry said, slowly raising his head. "It's my house."  
  
Hermione lifted her head to sight almost as startling as the mail post. Before them, they saw the remains of what must have once been a glorious house but now only retained a shadow of its former beauty. Little of the house still stood, and that which did was rotten and covered with mold. The rest was in shambles. Planks of wood littered the ground, the paint on them chipped and corroded. The debris was spread out, originating from a point within the house. The grass had long since died and shriveled up, leaving the property a barren wasteland. Within the rubble, pieces of furniture, both whole and broken, lay in various states of decay. Hermione saw such household implements as a shattered coffee mug, a bureau with a broken leg, rusty silverware strewn upon the ground, and a raggedy old doll, a child's plaything. Looking towards the decayed door, Hermione could see "Potter" was also written on the brass doorknocker.  
  
"This is…" Harry stammered. "This is my old house. This is where my parents and I went into hiding during the war. This is where Voldemort…" He choked, tears beginning to form at the corner of his eyes. "This must be where my parents were murdered." His eyes lingered at the small crater in the center of the house. Slowly, he walked forward. He came to the center of the crater and stood silently, his eyes shut, his head hung low. He could feel the hot tears welling out of his eyes. Behind him, he heard Hermione slowly walking towards him. Not wanting her to see him in such a state, he quickly lifted his arm and wiped the tears away. As she got closer to him, he could hear the charred wood crunching underneath her feet. When she was right behind him, she stopped.  
  
"So," she said more to herself than to Harry. "This is where Voldemort met his Waterloo."  
  
Harry's eyes opened slightly as he contemplated her statement. 'No, that's not right,' He thought.  
  
"No," Harry firmly, startling her. "It's not. This wasn't his Waterloo. If it was, Cedric would still be alive."  
  
"It wasn't your fault Harry," she answered.  
  
"Then whose was it?" he asked, his voice beginning to rise in anger, but not at Hermione.  
  
Hermione walked around Harry to look him in the face. She lifted her hands and placed them on his shoulders, her deep brown eyes staring intently into his. When she spoke, her words carried a force uncharacteristic of her normal voice with emphasis on each word.  
  
"It wasn't your fault" she repeated.  
  
"It wasn't my fault, the whose was it?!" Harry bellowed.  
  
"Voldemort's" Hermione said, her words like ice. "Why are you blaming yourself? You didn't know what was waiting for you, you didn't cast the spell. The only person who is responsible is Voldemort."  
  
Hermione's words cut through Harry like a blade. Harry could not recall Hermione ever referring to the Dark Lord by his real name before. He could count on one hand the number of people he knew who did that regularly. Then the actual meaning of her words hit Harry like a bludger. 'She can't know,' he thought. 'She can't understand what it was like. She wasn't there. She didn't see him when he-'  
  
Then it hit him. She was right. It wasn't his fault. Everything was Voldemort's fault. All the pain, all the loss, it was all his fault. He was innocent. Right?  
  
"Hermione," Harry said, his voice very quiet.  
  
"What is it, Harry?" she responded.  
  
"I…" he stuttered. "There…there's something I need to tell you."  
  
"What is it Harry?" she asked, her voice now shaking with anxiety.  
  
"You have to promise me…promise me that you won't tell anyone. Especially Ron."  
  
"Of course, Harry," her brown eyes widening in anticipation. "Anything at all."  
  
"I…" he tried to speak but his mouth was too dry. "I'm a Prefect."  
  
The silence was deafening. Hermione kept looking at Harry, but he had averted his eyes. Finally, she blinked.  
  
"Oh," she said matter-of-factly. "Well, that's great Harry, us both being Prefects. I mean, it's a real honor to be one, and I'm sure it will be great. We'll have special privileges and-"  
  
"No, you don't understand," Harry interrupted. "I can't be a Prefect."  
  
"Well, why not?" she asked, a puzzled look on her face.  
  
"Don't you remember anything from last year?" Harry asked. "Remember what happened with Ron? He went out of his skull when I was chosen as a House Champion. I can't imagine how he'll react if I tell him this. He'll think I'm going out of my way to be better than him."  
  
"That's silly, Harry!" she said, almost laughing at Harry's paranoia. "Ron won't-" She caught herself as she actually put some thought into what she was going to say. "Well…listen Harry. I know that Ron can be a real dunce sometimes, but deep down, you and I both know that he wants the best for you. You know that, right?"  
  
Harry closed his eyes again and was silent again for several moments.  
  
"I hope you're right, Hermione," he said, his eyes still closed. "I hope you're right."  
  
"Well of course I'm right," she said. "I mean, come on. This is me we're talking about." 


	7. A New Year

Chapter 7  
  
A New Year  
  
"Where you going?"  
  
"Back to school…"  
  
-From Scent of a Woman  
  
The entire Granger household woke early on the morning of September 1st. The two parents were already up and dressed by the time Harry strolled into the breakfast room, his already messy black hair even more disheveled than usual. Hermione strolled in a few minutes later wearing a pair of faded jeans and a baby blue T-shirt. Breakfast for Harry was small and simple, consisting of a piece of toast and large glass of orange juice. The children's trunks were already stowed in the Granger's car, Hedwig had just returned from a night of hunting, and Crookshanks was curled sleepily around Hermione's feet.  
  
Soon after breakfast, Harry and the Granger's piled into the car and started the short drive to the London rail station. Harry and Hermione were still discussing their discovery of the Potter house. Harry had seemed so shaken by the incident that Hermione had tried not to bring up the issue, but this time was an exception.  
  
"I just don't understand," said Hermione. "Why is that I've never noticed it before? It was so obvious after you pointed it out, yet I cannot recall ever seeing it there."  
  
"It's the Fidelus Charm," answered Harry. He had come to this conclusion after many sleepless nights, pondering the same question. "Apparently it's still in effect, even after all these years. You couldn't see it because only the people bound by the charm and who are informed by the charmed can actually see it. I was charmed along with my parents, so when I walked by, I saw it. And because I pointed it out to you, you could see it as well."  
  
"That sounds like a plausible solution," said Hermione. She was impressed with Harry.  
  
"Maybe," Harry said listlessly. "I would like it just as well if it was still invisible."  
  
  
  
The group arrived in London around noon, leaving them just enough time to make their stop in Diagon Alley to replenish their school supplies. They bought all the necessary equipment on their lists, reminding them of the truly unusual nature of the items as they were purchased. The store clerks were likewise bewildered by the unusual demand of products. They were used to Hogwarts students asking for unusual materials for their courses, but this year seemed exceptionally peculiar.  
  
The most tedious piece of equipment to purchase was the training armor. Harry had had his measurements taken in his first year for his school uniform, which was simple enough. Later on that year, he had his measurements taken again for his Quidditch gear. This took much longer than it had to make as simple set of clothes. The armor took even longer. The armorer had noticeable bags under his eyes from the long days(and nights) of work from previous orders. Harry was shocked to see how much effort went into creating every section, from the shoulder patches and thigh guards to the intricately woven gauntlets and bracers.  
  
After they had gotten their necessary armor, the group moved on to get the piece of jewelry on the equipment. Harry was shocked at the multitude of rings, bracelets, necklaces, and medallions that hung on the walls of the small shop. He decided on a silver ring, shaped in the design of intertwined, white owl feathers. The ring reminded him of Hedwig. Hermione chose a simple locket and chain made of silver as well. The locket was in the form of a book(naturally).  
  
When all their supplies had been bought, they left in the rail station. They had spent longer than they had intended to at Diagon Alley, and so were in a bit of a rush to get to Platform 9¾. When they arrived at the barrier that led to the platform, the group ran into the Weasleys. There stood Ron and Ginny, the last of the Weasley children, Fred and George having graduated the year earlier. Ron ran up to Harry and greeted him with a giant hug.  
  
"We were getting worried!" Ron said, exasperated. "The train's going to leave soon. What took you so long?"  
  
"We got a little hung up at Diagon Alley," Hermione answered.  
  
"Yeah, tell me about it," said Ron. "What's with the weird equipment list? You don't think it's got something to do with You-Know-Who, do you?"  
  
"Let's hope not," answered Harry.  
  
The four of them got on to the train. Harry was wondering how to tell Ron that he was a Prefect. He became increasingly nervous, and it began to show as he answered the salutations of Dean, Seamus, Neville, and their other students in a voice that was thick with anxiety. Ron was beginning to notice.  
  
"Somethin' wrong, Harry?" asked Ron.  
  
Harry stopped. Well, at least he tried to. The scores of people moving through the rail car forced them to keep moving. Eventually, Harry was able to pull Hermione and Ron over to one side. Harry reached into his pocket and withdrew the small silver pin that signified him as a Prefect. Ron simply stared at it and Harry stared at him. They were silent for several moments. It was Hermione who broke the silence.  
  
"You guys can speak whenever you like, you know," she said, startling both of them out of their reveries. Ron look straight at Harry.  
  
"So you're a Prefect?" he asked.  
  
"Yeah," Harry said, his voice low, doing his best to avoid Ron's gaze. He prepared himself for the hurt look that he had come to expect from Ron, waiting for Ron to speak in a choked and forced voice that he was proud of him, when both of them would now it was a lie. Instead-  
  
"That's great, Harry!" Ron said jovially. Harry returned his gaze to look at Ron, seeing an expression of genuine jubilation.  
  
"You're not angry?" asked Harry.  
  
"Of course not," Ron said incredulously. "Why would I be?"  
  
Harry didn't give him a verbal answer. Harry gave Ron a great bear hug, the two of them patting each other on the back. Hermione just stood there shaking her head.  
  
"Sometimes I just don't understand you two," she said.  
  
Harry and Hermione decided to forego the special car up front reserved for the prefects, thinking it was more important to stick with their friend. The trio moved down through the rail cars until they reached their normally empty car that they rode in every year. This year, however, the car was not empty.  
  
A young boy, about their age was sitting silently in one of the rows of seats that filled the rail car. They couldn't see his face, because he was turned away from them, but they could see that he had a shock of dark brown hair. As they moved closer to the boy, they could see he was holding a small parchment sheet in his hand, the words on it written in a tight formal scrawl. At the bottom, the could see a seal of authenticity. When they were a few feet away, the boy heard them and turned to face them.  
  
"I'm sorry," he said. "Can I help you?"  
  
The boy had sharp features, with a pronounced chin and nose. His eyes were the same deep brown as his hair. When he spoke, his voice was light and quiet, but strong at the same time. He quickly rolled up the parchment in his hands and placed it in a small nylon backpack that sat next to him in the seat.  
  
"Oh, we didn't mean to intrude," said Harry, curious as to who this unfamiliar boy was. "We were just looking for a car to sit in."  
  
"Yes, that's right," said Hermione, equally as curious as Harry.  
  
"Who are you?" Ron asked bluntly. He was not the most subtle of people.  
  
The boy gave them a gentle smile, standing up to face them.  
  
"My name is Darien," he said, extending his hand to them.  
  
They each took turns shaking hand with Darien, and introduced themselves. Harry couldn't help but notice how strong his grip was.  
  
"Nice to meet you, Darien," said Hermione. She told him her name.  
  
"I'm Ron Weasley," said Ron.  
  
"I'm Harry," Harry said. He didn't want Darien to know who he was. He truly disliked the look people gave him when they discovered his identity. "So, are you new to Hogwarts?"  
  
"Uh, yes, actually," answered Darien. "You see, I-"  
  
Just at that moment, Draco Malfoy entered the rail car with his two cronies, Crabbe and Goyle, at his side. Draco had grown over the summer and was now a bit taller than Harry, although he was just as thin, and his platinum blonde hair as slick as ever. He sauntered down the aisle toward the group of four.  
  
"Well, well, well," he said, crossing his arms. "If it isn't the mudblood trio."  
  
"Get out of here, Malfoy," said Ron, his fists already starting to clench at the insult. Harry could already tell that his temper was going to get the better of him. "You're not welcome on this end of the line."  
  
"Oh, I think we'll stay right here actually," Malfoy retorted. "And I see you have a new little friend. Whom do I have the pleasure of meeting?" He mockingly extended a bony hand to Darien. Darien did not accept it.  
  
"My name is Darien," he said simply, staring directly into Malfoy's eyes.  
  
"Just Darien?" said Malfoy, lowering his hand. "Not even refined enough to give a last name?"  
  
"My last name is not important," he said simply.  
  
"Oh, I wouldn't be so sure about that," Malfoy replied. "You see, your last name can tell you a lot about a person. For instance, if your last name were 'Weasley,'" he shot Ron a glance, "then you know that you come from a poor upbringing and that you've got more red hair and freckles than you do brains or coins in your pocket, for that matter."  
  
"Malfoy, I'm warning you-" started Ron.  
  
"Get out," Darien interjected. His voice was carried a tone that clearly said, "Don't-Mess-With-Me."  
  
"Or what?" asked Malfoy. Behind him, Crabbe and Goyle began cracking their knuckles and tried to put on intimidating scowls. "You want to take us on?"  
  
Ron was up to the challenge. He jumped at Malfoy, but Harry grabbed and restrained him before the two of them could start fighting. Ron was spewing saliva as he spat every curse he could think of at Malfoy. He stopped abruptly when he heard a soft, but audible click behind them. Everyone turned to look at what had made the sound. It came from Darien.  
  
He was pointing a gun at Malfoy.  
  
"You know what this is?" Darien asked. "It's weapon called a Colt .45, one of the greatest handguns ever made. You know what it does?" Malfoy silently shook his head. "It fires a single metal bullet at high velocity towards the intended target. The bullet hits the target at close to the speed of sound. Upon impact, the bullet, due to the extreme force exerted on it due to the high velocity, mushrooms out, creating a blunt surface which causes major damage to anything it touches. Depending on where it hits, the bullet could go completely through, creating a hole all the way through the target, or it could get caught along the way. If it isn't removed, it can cause an infection that will slowly grow until it kills the target.  
  
"However, the bullets in this gun aren't normal bullets. They're high powered, hollow-point bullets. That means that a few moments after impact, the enormous force exerted on the head of the bullet causes it to explode within the target, with enough force to blow off a limb Were it to hit in an area such as the head, the skull would be completely shattered. If someone had to identify the victim, they'd have to use the victim's dental records. Do you know why? Because there would be nothing left of his face.  
  
"That's what's pointed at you now."  
  
Malfoy stared at Darien, a look of absolute terror on his face. Crabbe and Goyle were in a similar state. Harry, Hermione, and Ron were shocked.  
  
"Now," said Darien after a silence that seemed to stretch on forever. "I suggest you leave this car." Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle scrambled out.  
  
It was a few moments before anyone said anything. Harry stood up and faced Darien.  
  
"You brought a gun to school?" Harry asked incredulously.  
  
Darien looked at Harry intently. Suddenly, he swung the gun in Harry's direction and pulled the trigger. Harry instinctively raised his arms…  
  
And was greeted by a splash of water. Harry lowered his arms and stared at Darien, who was now laughing silently to himself.  
  
"It's a water pistol," he said, tossing the toy at Harry. "It couldn't hurt a fly."  
  
Everyone stared at Darien, too shocked to speak. Before long, however, Ron began to laugh.  
  
"Did you see the look on Malfoy's face?" he said. "Absolutely priceless!"  
  
Everyone began to laugh as the atmosphere lightened. The four of them sat down and began to have a light-hearted conversation as they waited for the train to arrive at Hogwarts. Throughout the conversation, however, Harry couldn't help but think there was something odd about the way Darien spoke. It sounded normal enough, but there was something else there that Harry couldn't quite describe. And just when he thought he heard it again, it was gone, elusive. Harry did his best to ignore it and concentrate on the conversation. Darien was open and jovial throughout the rest of the trip. After a few hours, the train began to slow, then stopped. They began to collect their things and get off the train.  
  
Looking back on it years later, Harry would have had to say that he liked Darien the moment he met him, and Darien would have said the same. Yet neither of them could know or even fathom what unbelievable destiny awaited them both. 


	8. The First Day Back

Chapter 8  
  
The First Day Back  
  
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------  
  
"This looks familiar, vaguely familiar,  
  
Almost unreal yet, it's too soon to feel, yet,  
  
Close to my soul, and yet so far away,  
  
I'm going to go back there some day.  
  
Sun rises, night falls, sometimes the sky calls.  
  
Is that a song there, and do I belong there?  
  
I've never been there, but I know the way,  
  
I'm going to go back there some day.  
  
Come and go with me, it's more fun to share  
  
We'll both be completely, at home in midair.  
  
We're flying, not walking, on featherless wings,  
  
We can all learn to love, like invisible strings.  
  
There's not a word yet, for old friends who've just met.  
  
Part heaven, part space, or have I found my place?  
  
You can just visit, but I plan to stay,  
  
I'm going to go back there some day.  
  
I'm going to go back there some day."  
  
-From The Muppet Movie.  
  
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------  
  
The students shuffled out of the train and made their way to the stagecoaches that awaited them, while the first years headed off to the shore of the lake, where boats waited to take them on their traditional ride across the lake. Harry, Darien, Hermione, and Ron climbed into one of the coaches. During the short ride, the three boys discussed Quidditch teams while Hermione spent her time reading one of her new textbooks.  
  
"Norway should do well this year," said Ron. "Got a new Beater by the name Harish."  
  
"Harish is good," said Darien. "But he's just one man. To win Quidditch you have to have a good team. Switzerland, now they've got a good team."  
  
"Are you kidding?" said Ron. "Switzerland's all washed up! And they have been since '92!"  
  
"What about Germany?" asked Harry. Both Darien and Ron looked at Harry and another argument started over which team was best. Hermione simply shook her head in disgust.  
  
The coaches pulled up to the main gate and the students climbed out. They made their way through the wrought-iron gates, which they noticed were riddled with arcane runes. They would discover later that the school had placed redoubled the number of protective enchantments placed on the castle. As they passed through the gates and underneath a newly constructed portcullis, they were directed into the Great Hall by Filch, the castle's caretaker.  
  
In the great multitude of students, Harry, Hermione, and Ron lost sight of Darien as he was swept into the crowd. The three of them cried after him but were unable to find him again. They instead decided that they would do their best to meet up with him later.  
  
Inside the Great Hall, the four long tables, one for each of the school houses, were already prepared with plates, silverware, and great golden goblets. The room was illuminated by thousands of candles which hung suspended in the air, charmed to never burn out as long as there was a need for them. The ceiling, enchanted to show the sky above them, created a picture of a beautiful night sky, devoid clouds, filled with a countless number of stars and planets dominated by the pale glow of a full moon.  
  
At one end of the room, tables had been placed on a dais for the professors. Harry could already see the Headmaster, the beloved Professor Dumbledore, seated at the head of the table. On his left sat Professor McGonagall, the Transfiguration professor and the head of Harry's house, Gryffindor. On Dumbledore's right was Professor Severus Snape, who was already casting a scowl at Harry. Snape was Harry's Potion professor, and the two of them hated each other with a passion. Harry couldn't help but notice that Snape seemed paler than before and that dark bags seemed to hang from his eyes. And then Harry saw someone new.  
  
Sitting just to the right of Snape was a man Harry had never seen before. He appeared to be in his mid-forties and he had a gaunt face with light brown hair. His mouth was tight-lipped and his jaw was firmly set. There was a single, white scar on the man's face that ran from his left temple to his left cheek. Harry could already see that the man's robes were stretched over a stout, muscular frame. The man's deep blue eyes were scanning the crowd even as he held a conversation with Professor Snape. For a moment, it seemed as though his eyes and Harry's met. But as quickly as it came, it was gone.  
  
Hagrid entered the Great Hall with a booming voice, shouting greetings to students and teachers alike. The children began to sit at their house tables as they prepared for the sorting of the First Years. Harry could already smell the food being made by the house elves as he sat down next to Hermione, Ron, and Ginny. On the other side of the table sat Dean, Seamus, and Neville.  
  
There was still no sign of Darien.  
  
As the students became settled, Professor Dumbledore stood up, waiting for complete silence before he began to speak.  
  
"Welcome to another year at Hogwarts," he said with a twinkle in his eye. Harry couldn't help but notice how fatigued Dumbledore seemed. His age of well over one hundred was beginning to show. "It lightens my heart to see you all again and the fact that we will soon be joined by a new group of students."  
  
He gestured towards the far side of the room where everyone could now see the first years assembling. Harry didn't recognize any younger siblings. He shifted his gaze back to the dais where he could see that the Sorting Hat had already been placed on a stool, waiting to sort the first years into their various houses.  
  
(I know that normally at this point, the Sorting Hat would sing a song. To prevent myself from seeming even more silly, I will refrain from even assuming that I have the ability to write a poem/song for the Sorting Hat, which we know changes the song each year. Please use your imagination to fill in this spot with your song of choice. Now on with the story!)  
  
The first years arranged themselves in front of the hat, and each stepped up to be sorted when Professor McGonagall called out his or her name. The process took some time, during which Harry's stomach began to growl increasingly louder. After what seemed an eternity, the last first year was sorted (a Gryffindor) to thunderous applause from the Gryffindor table. Professor Dumbledore rose again and addressed the crowd.  
  
"It is my distinct pleasure," he began. "to announce to you that we are hosting a very special guest. He happens to be an exchange student all the way from the United States. He will be joining us for the entire year and I expect you to treat him with the same courtesy that you would any other student at Hogwarts. Darien, will you please step forward?" He gestured to the far side of the room again.  
  
Harry, Hermione, and Ron swung the heads in the direction that Dumbledore was pointing, their jaws already hanging. There stood Darien, dressed in the Hogwarts uniform, with the exception that his silver clasp was of a bald eagle, as opposed to the Great Seal of Hogwarts. There were murmurs among the students as he strolled down the aisle towards the dais to be sorted. His face was impassive, yet his eyes strayed in Harry's direction as he passed by. He sat upon the stool and waited for the Sorting Hat to be placed on his head. Professor McGonagall put the hat on him and the entire assembly waited in anticipation to see which house he would be sorted into.  
  
The crowd waited. And waited. And waited. And waited.  
  
The moments seemed to stretch into eternity as all the students held their collective breath, waiting for the Sorting Hat to make its decision. The moments stretched into a minute. Then two, then three, then five. No one could ever remember a sorting that took this long. Even Neville Longbottom's hadn't been this time consuming. Harry could see beads of sweat beginning to form on Darien's forehead as the crowd began to buzz with anxiety. After what seemed an eternity, the hat finally spoke.  
  
"Professor Dumbledore," the hat said. "Could I have a moment with you?"  
  
Dumbledore rose, a look of concern on his face. He leaned in closer and listened intently as the hat whispered into Dumbledore's ear, too quietly for anyone except the three of them to hear. After a bit, Dumbledore straightened, wave for all the teachers to follow him in a small meeting room. The professors left the hall under Hagrid's care. Everyone began to talk about what an unusual year this was starting out to be.  
  
Several minutes later, the professors left the meeting room with Darien following behind them. The professors rallied behind Dumbledore, who placed Darien before him, resting his withered hands on Darien's strong shoulders. Dumbledore did not look happy.  
  
"Darien has been sorted into Gryffindor House," he said simply, and sent Darien over to his table. He walked towards Harry and his friends. The other students moved to make a space for him. When he sat down, Harry couldn't help but stare wordlessly at him. Harry wondered what all that had been about. His thoughts were interrupted by the appearance of a great plate of food before him as Dumbledore waved a hand, signaling that the feast had begun.  
  
Harry had forgotten to eat due to his hectic day and was famished by now. He began to shovel entire platefuls of food into his mouth. Sizzling steaks, fresh lobster, rack of lamb, venison, entire roasted turkeys, steaming heaps of mashed potatoes, grilled onions, french fries, Caesar Salads, bowls of soup, goblets of delicious butterbeer(specially brewed in Hogwarts's cellars), milkshakes, crystal clear flavored water, fizzy sodas, the multitude of food seemed endless. The tables were laden with delicacies the likes of which Harry had never imagined, far more elegant and extravagant then he could remember in years past. Dobby and the other house elves had been busy indeed.  
  
Time passed and soon everyone was sated. Dumbledore signaled for quiet before he rose to speak.  
  
"I trust by now that we are all well fed?" he asked, his ancient eyes twinkling. "I sincerely hope so. As I'm sure you are all aware by now, the class of Defense Against the Dark Arts has been removed from the curriculum and has been replaced by Survival in the Magical World. We are honored to have this class taught by our newest professor, Professor Mundugus Fletcher."  
  
He gestured towards the new professor Harry had noticed earlier. Professor Fletcher nodded his head at being acknowledged and returned to his conversation with Snape. Dumbledore continued.  
  
"I also wish to inform you that although the House Competition will continue as normal, the Quidditch Tournament will be withheld this year."  
  
There groans of disappointment from the students, mixed with shouts of anger. It took several moments before Dumbledore was able to calm the students down.  
  
"I understand your feelings towards this, but I feel as that it is in our best interests and personal safety due to…recent events." The room was silent. Everyone knew what "recent events" the professor was referring to. There were no more groans from the crowd. "With that in mind, I wish you all a peaceful night and look forward to seeing you all bright and early tomorrow for the first day of classes. Dismissed."  
  
The room was filled with the cacophony of chairs scraping against the floor as everyone rose to leave. As prefects, it was Harry and Hermione's duty to direct the Gryffindors through the corridors to their house.  
  
"Earwig," Hermione said to the Fat Lady, the portrait who guarded the entrance to Gryffindor house. The painting swung forward and the students climbed one by one through the small opening that lead to the Gryffindor common room. Eager to get to sleep after the long day, Harry and Ron headed straight to the fifth-year boy's room. Inside, they found Darien sitting on a new four-post bed. His arms were crossed and he had mischievous smile on his face.  
  
"How did you like my accent?" he inquired, his smiling growing, his voice now clearly portraying the standard American accent.  
  
"So that was it!" Harry exclaimed triumphantly. "I though I noticed something strange about how you spoke on the train."  
  
"You could have fooled me," Ron said dubiously. Darien simply continued smiling at them.  
  
"Why don't we try this again," Darien said. He stood and walked over to the two, extending his hand. "My name is Darien McKinnons."  
  
"Ron Weasley," he said, accepting Darien's hand.  
  
"Harry Potter," he said, also giving Darien's hand a hearty shake. Darien looked intently at Harry.  
  
"So you're the Boy Who Lived," he said simply. "I'm very pleased to meet you both."  
  
They would have talked longer, but Seamus and Dean busted in, yelling about a party, dragging the three of them down into the common room. Someone had smuggled in some of Fred and George's new inventions in and the entire common room was rolling in waves of laughter.  
  
They partied long into the night and it was quite some time before Harry was able to finally lie down and go to sleep. All in all, the new year had a very unusual start.  
  
  
  
The next day, everyone woke unhappily(except Hermione) on the first day of school. Harry and the other boys dressed before heading down to breakfast. There, Harry, Ron, and Darien met up with Hermione, and the four of them sat down for breakfast. They went over their new schedules and Harry and Darien noticed that they had exactly the same classes.  
  
Classes were the same as they had always been. Snape yelled at every little mistake that the Gryffindors made while praising the Slytherins for every minor success. Professor McGonagall was her normal strict self, speaking to them of how important this year would be to them, not than anyone paid attention to her except Hermione. Professor Flitwick was sick the first day and the entire class period was spent copying notes about Empowering Charms. Professor Binns, the only ghost teacher, started where they had left off last year in the same droning voice. They didn't have Divination with Professor Trelawney, who had not yet returned from her trip to Sweden. Things seemed fairly normal until they reached Survival in the Magical World.  
  
When the students filed into the room, Professor Fletcher was already waiting for them. On the table were a parchment and a melon. The classroom walls were decked with ornate swords, and a suit of armor stood in the far corner. The students filled the seats and waited diligently for Professor Fletcher to begin. He rose from behind his desk and moved to stand in front of the students.  
  
"This class is titled 'Survival in the Magical World,'" he said. "It is called that because that is what you will learn here. In the short year that follows, and it will seem short, I will teach you how to survive. You will learn how to heal yourselves as well as others. You will learn to live off of the land itself and use its resources to achieve your goals. You will learn to battle," here he paused and his piercing eyes scanned the crowd. "and you will learn to run. You will learn many skills. But there is something far more important to know how to do if you are to survive."  
  
He leaned over to his desk and lifted a sheet of parchment which he scanned. It was several moments before he spoke.  
  
"Hermione Granger?" he called. Hermione's hand shot up. "Thank you, you may lower your hand. I've been told that you are an exceptional student and that you have broken multiple records on exams." Hermione beamed. "You have perfect attendance, perfect grades, and with a few exceptions, you've also had model behavior. Is all of this true so far?" She nodded, wondering where the professor was going with this. "You are obviously a person who knows how to use her mind. But I'm wondering if that is all you are." Her beaming smile began to slowly fade and was replaced by a nervous countenance.  
  
"Let me present you with a situation, Miss Granger. This is a true story. Back during the previous War Against the Dark Lord, there was a patrol squadron of 15 brooms making a pass over heavily forested terrain. Everything was going normally until they received a distress signal from a small squad of 3 soldiers below them. They were surrounded by a substantial enemy force. The squadron leader informed his superior via Personal Arcane Communications System that he was going to descend and assist the squad. His superior told him not to, that the risk was too great to save a mere 3 lives. Despite a direct order from his superior officer, the squadron leader ordered his wingmen to descend and pick up the beset soldiers. Would you say that the squadron leader made an intelligent decision?"  
  
It was several moments before Hermione answered. Harry could see that she was beginning to sweat nervously at such an unusual question.  
  
"No," she said finally. Professor Fletcher nodded in acknowledgement.  
  
"Fair enough. Now let me tell you what happened. The squadron descended and rescued the three foot soldiers…" He paused as he took a moment to see if everyone was listening. Everyone was. "…and lost four wingmen in the attempt." The silence in the room was deafening and every student's eyes were locked either on Professor Fletcher or Hermione. "Now, would you say that that was a successful decision?"  
  
Again, it was several moments before Hermione replied.  
  
"No," she repeated.  
  
"Hmm. True, a trade of three for four couldn't exactly be described as successful. BUT," he leaned in even closer, until he was eye level with Hermione. "if you had been put in the same position as the squadron leader, would you have made the same decision?"  
  
Hermione was having trouble finding her voice. When she spoke, her voice was weak and quiet.  
  
"Yes," she said.  
  
"Why?" asked the professor, his eyes burning into hers.  
  
"Because it would be the right thing to do," she said finally.  
  
Professor Fletcher slowly stood up again, a small smile on his face.  
  
"It looks as though there is hope for you yet. Yes, people, there is something very important that you will learn in here. You will learn to think with your head," he pointed to his own. "and with your hear." He touched the left side of his chest. "A true warrior knows when to think with which. Neville Longbottom?"  
  
Neville became flustered at his name being called. "Yes," he asked, his voice cracking.  
  
Professor Fletcher walked over to one of the walls, reached up and pulled an ax down. He hefted it and walked back over to his desk. "What is this used for?"  
  
"Chopping wood, sir," Neville answered.  
  
"That's correct," Professor Fletcher said, nodding his head. "It's used for chopping wood. Darien McKinnons?"  
  
"Sir?" Darien responded.  
  
"What else could this be used for?" the professor asked.  
  
"It could be used to hurt someone," answered Darien, after pondering the question for a few long moments. Professor Fletcher nodded again.  
  
"That is also correct," he said. "It can also be used to harm someone. Your magic is like this ax. It can be used to chop wood, or-"  
  
He brought the ax down suddenly in a downward strike. Several people screamed in surprise and everyone jumped at the sickening thud as the ax hit the desk top. The ax sliced the melon on his desk cleanly in two. The two halves wobbled and spun from the force of the impact.  
  
"-it can be used to cleave your opponents skull. In this class, you will learn to do both and, more critically, you will learn when to do which."  
  
He walked behind his desk and sat down.  
  
"And in case you're wondering," He said. "the squadron leader in that story was me. Class dismissed."  
  
The students gathered their books, still in a stage of shock from the strange lesson. Just as Harry finished gathering his things, Professor Fletcher called him over to his desk to speak after everyone else left. Harry was a bit reluctant to be alone with the imposing professor. Fletcher stared at Harry for almost a minute before he said anything.  
  
"You look just like your father," he said, more to himself than to Harry.  
  
"Sir?" inquired Harry.  
  
"Forgive me," Fletcher said, embarrassed. "Hagrid tells me that you have a photo album with pictures of your parents in it. Do you have this album at school?" Harry told him that he had it in his trunk back in the Gryffindor castle. "I was wondering if you could bring it with you to class tomorrow. I would like to speak with you a little while after the lesson."  
  
"Of course, Professor," Harry said wonderingly. "Uh, forgive me for asking, but what is it you want to discuss?" It was a few moments before Professor Fletcher spoke.  
  
"You better run along, Harry" he said. "You don't want to be late for dinner."  
  
Harry got the message and left to catch up with the others. Later that evening, he would ponder over what an unusual first day back it had been. 


	9. The Old Soldier

Chapter 9  
  
The Old Soldier  
  
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"You fought in the Clone Wars?"  
  
"Yes. I was once a Jedi Knight, the same as your father."  
  
"I wish I'd known him."  
  
"He was the best star pilot in the galaxy and a cunning warrior. I understand you've become quite a good pilot yourself.  
  
And he was a good friend."  
  
-From Star Wars Episode IV: A New Hope  
  
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The next day, Harry brought his photo album with him to class. He kept it in the bottom of his rucksack, away from prying eyes. The night before, Harry had gone through the album again, the pictures inside stirring his emotions. He sat now in class, waiting in anticipation of his meeting with Professor Fletcher.  
  
The second day of Survival in the Magical World was spent as an introduction to First Aid. As the lesson dragged on, Harry began to have an even greater sense of respect for Madam Pomfrey, the school's nurse. Attending Hogwarts almost ensured some form of injury and Harry had spent a great deal of time in her care. She had healed his every malady, from Dementor attacks to having to re-grow every single bone in his arm during his second year. Through it all, she seemed to do it effortlessly, and Harry had always assumed that it was indeed that simple. He was learning now that it was not so.  
  
Professor Fletcher had spent a great deal of time defining many of the basic forms of magical healthcare. There was the potions aspect, in which a spell could be imbued into a solution for use by anyone in a time of need. The other and more efficient form included actual spells in which healing energy was transferred through a wand. This was much more likely to save a patient, but it was much more difficult and required a great deal of training and skill. While Ron seemed to have a bit of trouble grasping some of the concepts, Hermione took to it like a duck in water. Harry himself felt that he understood most of it. He had no idea how well Darien took to it, for he did not speak at all during the lesson, spending the entire time listening intently to Professor Fletcher's lecture and jotting down notes.  
  
Professor Fletcher spent the first half of the class going over anatomy, conjuring up a faceless cadaver on his desk. Most of the students felt unsettled by parts of the lecture as the professor went over the crucial structure of muscle tissue and bone structure. The professor finished the lecture like this:  
  
"As I said yesterday, there are two ways to use this information. Knowing perfect anatomy of a being can help you to heal it and treat its wounds. But it can also make you a more efficient killer. Keep that in mind when you're on the battlefield."  
  
The class ended and the students began to file out. Harry gathered his things and waited for the other students to leave before he made his way over to Professor Fletcher's desk.  
  
"Ah, thank you for coming, Harry," Fletcher said. "I truly appreciate that you're giving up some of your free time in this way."  
  
"Oh, think nothing of it, Professor," Harry said. He began to relax at hearing Professor Fletcher speaking with a calm and amiable voice, much different from the one he had used the day before.  
  
"Please, come into my office," Fletcher said. He rose and walked to the back of the class, where he opened the door and gestured for Harry to come inside.  
  
Harry entered and observed his surroundings. The room was dimly lit by several candles and a low fire burned in a fireplace on the right side of the room, which had a very earthy feel to it. The wood of choice was oak and there were two matching recliners made of dark brown tooled leather. The mantle above the fire place held an assortment of gold and silver helms which had been molded to resemble the heads of dragons. The walls on either side of the fireplace were ornamented with swords over a coat of arms. On the other side of the room was a great bookshelf that held great tomes with spines as thick as Harry's rucksack. The back of the room was filled by an untidy wooden desk, which was laden with parchments, quills, and an occasional blueberry muffin. Behind the desk was a shelf that was filled to the brim with bottles, most of which contained a variety of liquors and wine.  
  
As Harry stood in the center of the room, he heard a soft growl behind him. He turned and was face by a snow white dog with wolf-like features. The dog's teeth were bared and his fur stood on end. Harry could see the dog's powerful leg muscles bunch as it prepared to spring at Harry.  
  
"Quiet, Tasha," said Professor Fletcher. "He's a friend."  
  
The wolf immediately stopped growling but did not take its intense eyes off of Harry. It walked closer to him and Harry instinctively stepped back until he hit the desk. The wolf began to sniff at Harry for a few moments until it went back into it's corner. Professor Fletcher began to chuckle.  
  
"Well, it looks as though she's given you her stamp of approval," he said. Harry just kept staring uneasily at the wolf.  
  
"Please sit, Harry," said the professor. Harry sat on one end of the professor's desk while he walked over to where the bottles of alcohol sat. He began to pour himself a drink.  
  
"Do you want something to drink?" asked the Professor without turning to face Harry.  
  
"You wouldn't happen to have a butterbeer would you?" Harry asked, a little unsure of himself.  
  
Professor Fletcher turned his face to look at Harry. He could see that the professor had a small smile on his face.  
  
"I believe I can scrounge one up for you," he said. The professor set about mixing his drink, eventually pulling out a bottle of butterbeer from under the counter. He turned around and sat down at his desk before handing Harry the bottle. Professor Fletcher leaned back in his large leather chair and raised his glass.  
  
"'Chapter 4, article 13, subsection 56, rule 4, of the Hogwarts Faculty Handbook,'" he began. "'No teacher shall imbibe alcohol while within the castle walls.' Here's to rules."  
  
He downed the glass of whiskey and Harry took a tug on his butterbeer. The warm liquid warmed him to his core.  
  
"So," said Professor Fletcher. "Did you bring the album?"  
  
"Yes, sir," said Harry. He reached into his rucksack and brought out the leather photo album. He gave it to Professor Fletcher. The professor began to leaf through the pages, shuffling through dozens of pictures until he stopped at a certain page. His eyes were wide with shock and his mouth hung open. He leaned away from the album but kept his unblinking eyes on the book.  
  
"I haven't seen this picture in over 15 years," he mused. "God, when you say it like that…"  
  
Harry leaned over to look at the picture. It was different than the others on the page. It had not been enchanted so that the people inside the photo could move and talk. It was a normal still photo of two men. On Harry recognized as his father. The other man Harry did not know. The man's face was covered with blood and Harry could see he was missing several teeth from the weak grin he was giving. The man leaned heavily against his father, James Potter supporting most of the other man's weight. Behind them Harry could see an ancient brick fortress, moss clinging on the spires. Harry turned his eyes back to the man in the photograph. Then Harry realized who the man was.  
  
It was Professor Fletcher.  
  
"You knew my father?" Harry blurted out. The professor slowly nodded his head.  
  
"I knew him very well," he said. "We went to Hogwarts together."  
  
"Did you know Sirius Black?" asked Harry.  
  
"Yes I did," answered the professor. "I knew them both very well. We all go back a long way."  
  
There was a long silence. Beginning to feel uncomfortable, Harry decided to inquire about the castle.  
  
"Where was this picture taken?" he asked.  
  
For a long time, the professor didn't answer. When he spoke, his voice sounded much deeper and pained.  
  
"Years ago, I was a member of the elite forces of the Ministry of Magic. I was highly decorated, considered to be a shining example of what made the perfect soldier. When Voldemort began to raise followers, the Minister at that time decided that he wanted to know as much as he could about this new threat growing in the southeast. So they sent me in, undercover.  
  
I was captured."  
  
He stared right at Harry, making the pupil feel quite uncomfortable. It was several moments before the old soldier continued his tale.  
  
"I was taken to Fort Svitzen on the Yugoslavian-Bulgarian border. It used to be controlled by the UMN(United Magical Nations) as a type of "peace-keeping" fortification, but by then it was controlled by Voldemort's forces. I was considered a high-priority operative, but the thing was that my operation was so secret that I couldn't even send a distress signal.  
  
"Anyway, they took me to that godforsaken place and tortured me. Not interrogated but tortured. I'd been trained to suppress the effects of the Cruciatus Curse, so they were forced to use more…conventional means."  
  
Here he brought his hand up to his cheek and traced his long scar with his finger down the left side of his face. Harry gulped and became self- conscious of his own scar.  
  
"They did things to me that I can't even describe. Yet, through the entire ordeal, they didn't ask me one question. They tortured me for the sake of torture. They enjoyed my screams. The other men in the fort must have used it like a lullaby. I went three weeks like that with the same routine, until they tried something different.  
  
They brought in a Dementor."  
  
Harry's heart sank. Dementors were Harry's greatest fear. They brought about the worst memories in a person's heart, and whenever one came close to Harry, he remembered the night that his parents were murdered. A Dementor was an abomination, the opposite of life itself. The professor poured himself another drink before continuing.  
  
"I was a warrior. I'd been on the battle field many times. I'd seen my comrades fall under the onslaught of our enemies. The Dementor had plenty of nightmares to feed off of from me. It stayed with me for another four days before I knew that the time had come when it had tired of me. It decided to give me the…the Kiss."  
  
The Kiss of the Dementor was the Dementor's most horrible ability. It brought its face down to the victim and sucked out his or her soul. It was worse than death.  
  
"I knew what was coming. But then, right when the thing was probably puckering up…your father burst through the door and destroyed the Dementor with his Patronus. The Ministry had clued into the fact that I was in trouble after not reporting in for so long. By that time, the war had begun and people had either rallied behind Voldemort or against him. James had suggested that we moved to liberate Fort Svitzen but his superiors disagreed; they felt the risk was to great. He went against orders and led a small force to take back the fort and save me in the process. This picture was taken the day of the Liberation.  
  
I made a solemn pledge that day. I swore fealty to your father. I promised to serve him loyally until I was dead, for only then could my debt be repaid. I stayed with him for a long time and we fought many glorious battles together. When Dumbledore suggested that James go into hiding, I understood that I could not follow him and that I could not be his Secret Keeper for the Fidelus Charm. I went to fight the war.  
  
When I heard of your father and mother's death, I was heartbroken. I felt that I would never be able to repay him. I left the army and went into the cold recesses of Norway where I lived alone for fourteen years. But then Dumbledore told me about Voldemort's return and so I returned."  
  
"You came back for that?" asked Harry.  
  
"I came back for several reasons," answered the professor. "I knew that I could do more good teaching the younger wizards to protect themselves than simply going off and fighting the war by myself. Because of that, I took up Dumbledore's offer of a teaching position instead of on the warfront. I also discovered that you were still alive."  
  
Here there was a pause. Harry knew where the professor was going with this.  
  
"I can't repay my debt to your father," he said. "So now I will protect you."  
  
Harry was speechless. He didn't know what to think.  
  
"Don't worry," said the professor. "I'm not going to get involved with your personal life. Just be assured that I'll be keeping my eye out for you."  
  
At that moment, an alarm clock on Professor Fletcher's desk went off, startling both of them. The professor cleared his throat.  
  
"Look at the time," he said. "You should run along for supper. I don't want you to go hungry. Here, take your album."  
  
Harry took the book and placed it back inside his rucksack. He stood and started for the door. The professor's voice behind Harry stopped him.  
  
"Harry," started Professor Fletcher. "I truly enjoyed this. Do you think we could meet again like this tomorrow?"  
  
Harry turned around, contemplating the question. Finally, he gave his answer.  
  
"Sure," he said. "I'll look forward to it."  
  
With that, Harry ran out and met up with his friends to eat dinner. He discussed the meeting with his friends.  
  
"Wow," said Ron, his mouth full of mashed potatoes. "A real war hero, huh?"  
  
"He's an amazing man," said Darien. He was starting on his steak. "We can all learn a lot from him. I just hope we can survive the class itself."  
  
"I can't believe how much we're going to learn," said Hermione, picking at her salad. "I've already read all the books he put on our reading list and I can't believe he thinks were capable of performing those kinds of spells."  
  
"I just want to learn about my father from him," said Harry. He wasn't eating anything. His meeting with Professor Fletcher hadn't sat well with his stomach. 


	10. The Proving Grounds

Chapter 10  
  
The Proving Grounds  
  
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"You're not your family, and you're not who you tell yourself."  
  
"You're not your name."  
  
"You're not your problems."  
  
"You're not your age."  
  
"You are not your hopes."  
  
"You will not be saved."  
  
"We are all going to die, someday."  
  
-from Fight Club, the novel by Chuck Palahniuk  
  
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General Noish strode down the narrow halls of the castle. He was in a foul mood. It was three o'clock in the morning and he had been having a pleasant night's sleep when Lord Voldemort had sent for him. He rose and strapped on his favorite suit of armor, buckling on his sword belt; he didn't want to look unpresentable in front of his master. Now he was wishing he had chosen lighter attire. The autumn air was unusually humid and moisture hung from the dank brick walls at his sides. He raised a hand to wipe the sweat from his eyes, sorely hoping this was important.  
  
He came to the great ebony doors and knocked.  
  
"You may enter," said a voice from within.  
  
Noish pushed on the doors and strode in. What he saw puzzled him. Inside was his master, standing in the center of the room. Lord Voldemort seemed far more youthful animated since the last time Noish had seen him. But what truly vexed him was the three people standing behind Voldemort. There were two young men and one young women. Each of them were stoic and stood straight ahead. They were all dressed in identical black robes. Noish could not tell what age they were. They physically looked no older than fifteen of sixteen, but they radiated an aura that made them seem ancient.  
  
"Thank you for joining us, General Noish," said Voldemort. "You are a witness to the making of history."  
  
"Sir?" asked Noish, not quite comprehending what Voldemort was implying.  
  
"I want you to meet my latest and greatest creation," Voldemort said, turning to face the three people behind them. "These three are my elite. They trained to destroy any obstacle with the swiftest of brutalities. They can and will decimate anything or anyone that stands in my way. I call them the Bejamúnt."  
  
Voldemort turned to look at General Noish. The three wizards were still impassive.  
  
"What do you think?" asked Voldemort.  
  
General Noish stammered. Voldemort could not be serious! How dare he put these children up on such high thrones above him, the greatest of Voldemort's generals.  
  
"I am sorry, Sir," he said, trying to restrain himself. "But I cannot understand this. Are you saying that these children-"  
  
"Children?" asked Voldemort, a smirk beginning to grow on his face. "It seems to me that you do not believe that they are as powerful as I say. Do you doubt me?"  
  
"I do not mean any disrespect, my Lord."  
  
"Oh, but you DO," said Voldemort, pointing an accusing finger at Noish. "You doubt me. You've doubted ever since the day I told you that you wouldn't lead my army. And yes it is still MY ARMY. Do you think that I am blind, or perhaps that I am deaf? I have heard you spreading your own propaganda among the soldiers, saying that I am going screwy in the head, that I am not capable of performing the task ahead." Voldemort's red eyes blazed, his nostrils flaring out. As Noish began to quiver with fear, he could see veins beginning to bulge and pulsate along Voldemort's shaved head and neck. "Well perhaps you need a reminder of who you take commands from. Perhaps you would like a demonstration of the power of the Bejamúnt? JOHNATHAN!"  
  
The young man on the right strode forward. He was black and had a shaven head like his master's. He had a strong build and moved swiftly and agilely. "Yes, my master?"  
  
"Please teach General Noish a lesson in obedience," Voldemort said, not turning to face John, instead keeping his eyes on Noish.  
  
"As you wish," he said.  
  
He removed his robes swiftly, revealing simple black clothing similar to a martial art's uniform. He lifted his arms in front of him. If Noish had been paying attention, he would have noticed the well toned muscles of John's forearms and his bulging biceps. But Noish's attention was centered on the objects in John's hands. In his left he held an ebony black wand. In his right he held a switch blade. With a flick of his wrist, the blade flicked out, shimmering in the low light of the torches in the room. Then something Noish had never expected happened.  
  
Within an instant, where the knife blade had been, and thin column of flame burned. It seemed as if he was wielding a sword of pure flame. Noish stood enchanted by it. Enchantment was soon replaced by fear as the flaming blade swung forward.  
  
Noish leaped back, drawing his own sword. He has a veteran of many battles and was confident in his skills. No childish upstart would best him!  
  
John came at him with quick stabs and thrusts, a flurry of attacks and parries from both parties. They both moved so gracefully and in such harmony that it almost appeared that they were dancing. And they were dancing, a dance of death. Noish was beginning to think that this child wasn't quite as unskilled as he had originally thought. Noish had used his sword to strike down many foes. Now he used it to defend himself.  
  
The battle lasted several minutes, each of the combatants apparently equally matched. But Noish's age was beginning to catch up with him. His attacks were not as frequent and he had more trouble block John's quicker attacks. Noish waited for an opening to strike a lethal blow.  
  
Then Noish had his chance. John unknowingly tripped on a small step leading up to a raised window. Noish swiped at John's head in a wide arc, thinking that he had won. But where his opponents head had once been was no longer there. Noish realized to late that John's "trip" was a feint. John strafed around Noish, just recovering from his ill-placed attacked, and came up behind Noish. He brought his ebony wand up to Noish's back and whispered the words to a spell.  
  
Noish felt a searing pain behind him, first starting at the small of his back, then moving away and over his entire back until he felt a white hot burning sensation throughout his entire body. He cried out in agony and fell to the floor. He heard his charred armor crumble and crack as his hit the stone floor. Looking up, he saw John's face looming down at him, posed to strike. Noish did his best to scramble away, crawling along the floor, desperately trying to flee such a horrific opponent. He crawled until he reached the feet of his master. He stared up at Voldemort.  
  
"Puh…please… master," he said, trying to speak over the pain. "Show mercy."  
  
"Mercy?" said Voldemort, disdain on his face. "Why? I have shown mercy to no one he opposed me. I showed no mercy to the fools who took up arms against me. I showed no mercy to my own parents. What make you think that I would make and exception of you?"  
  
Noish lowered his head and began to sob silently. He heard John walk up behind him.  
  
"Finish him," he heard Voldemort say.  
  
John lifted his flaming sword above him and brought it down on Noish's neck. The searing heat of the blade cauterized the flesh as it passed, leaving no blood in it's wake. The flame of the blade had touched Noish's hair and his head was now adorned with a crown of flaming hair. Noish's head rolled on the floor and the room was filled with the smell of charred flesh and burning hair. Voldemort stood impassively over the body of his fallen general and John took his place again next to Craig and Claire. They had not moved through the entire event.  
  
Noish's hair had finished burning, leaving only a charred and blackened head. Voldemort bent over and picked up Noish's head and the body in either hand and walked slowly over towards the window. Then he threw them out the window. They landed in the courtyard. The body hit with a sickening thud and the head cracked and became even more disfigured from the fall. Voldemort raised his hand and fire rolled off of his fingertips like burning serpents. They coiled around themselves as the moved out towards the ground. When they hit the cobbled pavement, the took on a life of their own, jumping throughout the courtyard, lighting bonfires and lamps, screaming ear-pierced howls as they went. By the time they finished, the entire courtyard was alight with an eerie red glow. The serpents leapt off the ground and returned to their master's hands. The rolled in among themselves into tiny balls of flame. Then into tiny burning embers. And then into darkness and Voldemort clenched his thin hands into fists.  
  
Below, men started to move about, jumping to arms, thinking that the castle was under attack. They stopped in shock as they saw the charred body and decapitated head of General Alec von Noish.  
  
"Look closely at him!" came Voldemort's booming voice. "This is the fate that awaits infidels! You have all sworn loyalty to me, and that is not a vow easily broken! I own each and everyone of you! If you live to see the next day, it is because I allow it! If you do as I say, you will be rewarded. If you disobey, you will be destroyed!"  
  
Voldemort raised his wand and pointed at Noish's corpse. A burst of sparkling green light shot out of the end of the wand and streaked down towards Noish like a meteor. When it hit, Noish's corpse exploded in green flame.  
  
"Let this be a lesson that I will not accept insubordination," said Voldemort. "This is the fate that awaits my enemies."  
  
He turned and walked slowly away from his chambers. As he walked, he could hear the men below chanting his names, shouting oaths of loyalty. Voldemort smiled. He had killed two birds with one stone. Now the soldiers were serve with undying loyalty, and he now knew that his Bejamúnt were ready for the task at hand. Perfect engines of war. He walked until he stood in front of the Bejamúnt.  
  
"Well done," he said as proudly as a father to his son. "You are ready. Now I must with Dumbledore." 


	11. The Theory

Chapter 11 The Theory  
  
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"Look at this. It's an article written by an organ in the 1st person. 'I am Jack's medulla oblongata. Without me Jack could not regulate his heart rate, blood-pressure or breathing.' There's a whole series of these. 'I am Jill's nipples.' 'I am Jack's colon.'"  
  
"Yeah. 'I get cancer, I kill Jack'"  
  
-from "Fight Club" the movie  
  
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".Something sleeps inside us and seldom awakens. The sleeper must awaken."  
  
-from "Dune" the movie  
  
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Harry gathered his books together as another class of Survival in the Magical World ended. The lesson had been a grueling study session, during which Professor Fletcher had forced them to memorize hundreds of medical terms. Harry's eyes were sore from staring at the inked parchment.  
  
"I'll catch up with you guys later," he yelled to his friends.  
  
"Okay," said Hermione. "Just make sure you don't skip supper." The heavy study session hadn't even fazed her. She and Ron walked off. As their voices faded away in the low rumble of the crowd of students, Harry could hear Ron still grumbling about the workload. Darien stopped before he exited the classroom.  
  
"You're sure you won't join us, Harry?" he asked. "Ron and I were going to play some Exploding Snap. You would like to play, too?"  
  
"Maybe later," Harry replied. Darien simply shrugged.  
  
"Alright, but it's your loss," he said and ran off to catch up with Harry's other friends.  
  
Harry couldn't help but smile. He liked Darien. Sure, he could be a little strange at times (he had shown that the first day) but if you were nice to him, he responded in kind If you treated him unkindly.well, Malfoy was still wary of him. But in Harry's mind, Malfoy deserved it, so Darien was okay in his book. And besides, everyone at Hogwarts could be a little strange at times, Harry included. Darien's quick wit and subtle intellect made him appealing to be near and he was already on friendly terms with most of the student body.  
  
"Harry?" Professor Fletcher spoke up, interrupting Harry's thoughts. He turned to look at his teacher who was motioning towards the door to his office. "Are you coming?"  
  
"Oh, yeah," he said, tossing his rucksack over his shoulder and heading towards the back of the classroom. As he stepped into the room, he was enveloped by the earthy atmosphere inside. He walked further in and eventually seated himself in the large leather bound armchair in front of Professor Fletcher's desk. The professor walked around his desk and poured himself a drink, as was now customary for him. Once that was done, he served Harry a warm butterbeer. He sat opposite to Harry and sipped at his drink as his pupil did the same.  
  
The two of them began to talk about Quidditch. Because of the new restrictions on Quidditch matches at the school, Harry hadn't had much chance to play. To help abate his desire to fly, he began conversing more on the subject, discussing specific maneuvers and techniques of the most skilled players, including Viktor Krum.  
  
"I almost have his Wronski Feint down," Harry muttered in frustration. "I'm just having trouble with the last turn."  
  
"I'm sure you'll accomplish it," said Professor Fletcher encouragingly. "You fly just like your father did-and he could do anything on a broomstick."  
  
"Tell me about my father," Harry said after several moments of silence between them.  
  
"Your father was amazing," said Fletcher, a small smile growing on his face. "He was one of the last truly great Quidditch players. He loved the game, but that wasn't why he played. He played because he loved to fly. I remember, we were in a match against Slytherin once. I dropped my guard and a Slytherin Beater landed a bludger with enough force to knock me off my broom. I would have fallen 25 meters to certain death, because back then there weren't nearly as many safety precautions. I didn't think I would make it.  
  
"Now, at the same time, your father was racing with the Slytherin Seeker to catch the Snitch. But as soon as he saw me falling, he pulled away and made a suicide dive to catch me. Everyone thought he was insane, including me, but he caught me.less than 2 meters off the ground."  
  
Harry sat listening to the exploits of his father.  
  
"Now that alone would have been incredible enough, but your father didn't stop there. He pulled out of the dive and used his momentum to rocket himself up in front of the Slytherin seeker. He captured the Snitch and won the match for Gryffindor. Yes, your father was truly a great player."  
  
Harry sat digesting the story. It seemed to incredible to believe.  
  
"My father," he said. "sounds like he was an amazing guy."  
  
"That he was, that he was," said the professor, nodding his head.  
  
"I wish I could have known him," Harry said wistfully.  
  
Professor Fletcher's smile faded and was replaced by a look of concern. Silence hung between them for a long time. Eventually, the professor cleared his throat.  
  
"Have you ever heard of my 'Ambient Magic Theory?'" he asked.  
  
"Umm.I can't say I have," said Harry, shaking his head. "What is it?"  
  
"Well, it's something I hypothesized about many years ago," said the professor, getting excited. "It basically states that magic is inherent in all living things."  
  
"Well, with all due respect," Harry said. "What's so groundbreaking about that?"  
  
"Because it essentially goes against everything that the Wizarding world believes about magic," he said.  
  
"What do you mean?" asked Harry.  
  
"If my theory is correct," said the professor. "Then it means that Muggles have magic too. It all works like this. Magic exist in all living things. That includes plants, animals, beasts, and all sentient beings. Do you know how the Unforgivable Curse Avada Kadavra works?"  
  
"Well, yeah," said Harry. "It kills whatever it's cast on."  
  
"Not exactly," countered Fletcher. "That's the end result, but it doesn't just kill the target outright. It works by removing the magic within the wizard. It is this loss that kills the person. This can be applied to every living thing, including Muggles. The only problem with the theory is that it brings up several questions."  
  
"Such as?" asked Harry.  
  
"Such as, if magic is inherent in living things, why is it that we need wands. My explanation for that is that we use wands to channel our magic from an incorporeal state inside us to a physical form outside. That's why some wands work better for certain people, because the wands might be calibrated to harmonize more effectively than with other people."  
  
"So you're saying that Muggles could do magic if they had a wand that was properly calibrated for them?" asked Harry.  
  
"Theoretically, yes. Haven't you ever wondered why it's against the law for anyone other than a wizard to even hold a wand, let alone use one? It's because they are equally dangerous in their hands, if not more so because of their ignorance of magic. That goes for all sentient beings, not just Muggles."  
  
"It sounds like a very interesting theory," said Harry, not fully understanding everything that the professor was trying to convey.  
  
"Ah, but it can be take one step further," Fletcher said. "That's where it get's really interesting. If magic exists naturally, why do we need wands? How would we have even known about the existence of magic in the first place if we couldn't manifest without the use of a wand? Why can't we simply use the magic as it is inside us without resorting to a wand?"  
  
"You mean wandless magic?" asked Harry, skeptically.  
  
"Is it so far-fetched? What are alchemy and potion-brewing but a way of releasing the natural magical energy in plants and animals? And that isn't the only way. Tell me, did you ever have any unusual mishaps during your childhood?"  
  
Harry closed his eyes and thought back on all the times his hair had grown back at incredible speeds just after a trip to the barber. He thought back to the times when he had suddenly appeared on the rooftop of the school when Dudley and his gang had been chasing him. Then of course there was the memorable trip to the zoo when the glass had vanished at the reptile house, allowing a boa constrictor to escape and terrorize Dudley. Thinking of all these things, Harry could only nod wordlessly.  
  
"It seems to be easier for children than for adults," continued the professor. "But even still, it's inconvenient because you can't control it, since it's all activated by your sub-conscious thoughts and desires."  
  
"Is that what the difference is between Muggles and Wizards?" asked Harry. "That wizards can cast ambient magic and muggles can't?"  
  
"Not exactly," said Fletcher. "Muggles can cast wandless magic, but they don't recognize it as magic. Since they don't believe in magic, when they do wandless magic they simply pass it off as coincidence. They recognize it simply as 'luck,' despite the fact that it is truly more complex than that."  
  
"That's.weird," said Harry, who was by now at a loss for words. "It all comes down to this," said the professor, his voice very grave. "I believe that at some point, a wizard must be able to use his ambient magic freely without the use of a wand. If he could do that, he would be immensely powerful."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Think about it. When you use a wand, some of the energy is lost because you need to transfer the energy through a medium. It's just like how some of the message is lost when an interpreter translates something from a different language for someone else. Actually, most of the energy is lost when you use a wand. Therefore, so if you didn't use one then the energy output would be far greater than if you had used a wand."  
  
"There's something that doesn't make any sense to me," said Harry. Actually, there were a lot of things that didn't make sense, but he didn't admit. "If you have this great idea, then why have I never heard of it before now."  
  
"Because it has a lot to do with politics," said Fletcher, grinning sardonically. "Doesn't everything nowadays? Like I said, it goes against what just about every wizard believes about magic when I say that Muggles and Wizards are almost entirely equal. So when I created the theory and turned it into the publishing, they refused to publish it."  
  
"Why wouldn't they publish it?" asked Harry.  
  
"Think about it. We live in an insecure world as it is. If my theory could be proven, then it would mean that Muggles are entitled to many of the same basic rights that wizards are. We would have to accept them into our world."  
  
"What's so bad about that?"  
  
Professor Fletcher shook his head, smiling. "You're a good kid Harry, and personally I agree with you, but you don't know too much about politics and you're still naïve when it comes to how people feel about things they don't understand. You see, even though most people won't admit it, the majority of wizards think highly of themselves when compared to Muggles. If they were suddenly to discover that the two groups were equal, then they wouldn't be the happiest of folks. It would throw the world into pandemonium and possibly even civil war."  
  
"So the publishing house wouldn't let you publish it because of that?"  
  
"Well, that's not the reason they gave me," said the professor. "They have to be diplomatic when the turn people down, but I knew the truth. They told me I didn't have enough proof or evidence to back it up."  
  
"What do mean 'no proof?'" asked Harry, incredulously. "What about everything you've just told me?"  
  
"I mean 'no proof,'" said Fletcher. "Despite how plausible the theory may sound, there is still no rock solid proof or data to validate a single word of it."  
  
"But if someone could use ambient magic freely the way you described, then there would be proof. Right?"  
  
"If someone could ascend, then yes there would be proof."  
  
"But until that happens, then there's no proof?"  
  
"No. No proof," Professor Fletcher said wistfully. "No proof at all." He looked over to one of the many clocks that adorned the walls. "Well, it's getting late. You should get going before you're late for supper."  
  
Harry exited the room and made his way towards the Great Hall. Throughout supper, he thought about what Professor Fletcher had told him about his father and spent even more time considering his theory. 


	12. The First Offense

Chapter 12  
The First Offense  
  
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"We will not waver; we will not tire; we will not falter; and we will not fail. Peace and freedom will prevail."  
  
-George W. Busch  
  
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When news of September 11th came to Hogwarts, people were unsure as to how to react. Some people were fearful while others were angered. People worried and some were scared. However, the most common reaction was indifference.  
  
Hermione had cried when she heard news of the attacks. Ron was predictably enraged. Harry himself wasn't sure how to react or even what he was feeling. He was sorrowful, but he couldn't cry. He was angered, yet he didn't yell. More than anything else, he was confused. Why would people do this? Why would people let this happen? And why did some students seem to not care?  
  
He had talked it over with several of his peers he felt seemed apathetic. He could not help but be angered by some of the things they said. Some said that it didn't matter because it was another country and it was none of their business. Others, especially the Slytherins, felt that it didn't matter because they were Muggles, and who cared if Muggles killed each other? Harry felt a rage boil inside him unlike any he'd felt in a long time. But that rage was quickly replaced by concern as he began to worry about Darien.  
  
Harry began to search for Darien after he noticed that his friend was not at supper. After the students were fed, Harry looked throughout the Gryffindor house without any sign of Darien. No one seemed to know where he was. Harry searched through all the dorm rooms and peeked in every corner of the common room. Darien was nowhere to be found. So Harry began to search outside his House.  
  
"You don't think they'll be sending him home, do you?" asked Hermione asked Harry as he stepped through the hole in the wall that led to the rest of the castle.  
  
"I don't know," said Harry, not turning to face her. He threw his Invisibility Cloak over his shoulders, leaving Hermione alone with her tears. "But I'm going to find out."  
  
Harry realized that it was quite against the rules for him to be outside right now, but this wasn't the first time he'd broken the rules. He smiled to himself as he remembered Professor Fletcher's toast on the second day of school. Here's to rules, Harry thought to himself.  
  
Harry looked through the library first. The librarian had retired for the evening and the archive was unsettlingly quite. As he walked past the long rows of bookshelves, towering over him like trees in a forest, Harry began to quicken his pace, wanting to find Darien as soon as possible. He skipped the Dark Arts section. Next he tried out in the Gardens, making sure to watch for grasping tendrils that reached for him, despite his lack of visibility. He realized recognized them as a cousin of Devil's Snare, which was attracted to body heat. He almost chuckled when he realized how truly vulnerable he was, even with the invisibility cloak. But he didn't laugh. There was still no sign of Darien.  
  
Harry searched and searched, to no avail. He had only overlooked one place: The quidditch field.  
  
Harry made his way through the grounds, towards the playing field. The air was growing cold and the invisibility cloak provided little warmth. His teeth chattered and he rubbed his hands together for warmth. The summer heat had left the land soon and winter seemed to be coming early. He soon came to the gates of the northern side of the field. The gates, which should have been closed by now, were unhinged. Harry crept forward, pushing the gates open further. He saw a huddled figure crouching out ahead of him in the center of the field.  
  
Harry made his way across the sand the marked the northern goal posts. As his feet began to crunch on the well-trimmed grass, the figure turned its head at the noise.  
  
"Harry," said Darien, acknowledging Harry's presence. "You shouldn't be here."  
  
"Likewise," Harry replied, closing the gap between them. Darien looked away, avoiding Harry's gaze.  
  
"Why did you come here?" Darien asked.  
  
"We were all worried about you," Harry said. "You know, when you didn't come back to the Gryffindor tower."  
  
"If you were really that worried, there would be an entire search party," he said. "Why did only you come?"  
  
"I wanted to make sure you were okay," Harry replied.  
  
"You wanted to know how I reacted to the attacks back home, right?" He asked.  
  
Harry didn't say anything. He knew Darien already knew it was the truth. Darien turned his face back to Harry.  
  
"I'll spare you the inquiry," He said. "I cried. I'm in pain. It hurts a lot to know that someone could hate you so much just for being what you are and can't change."  
  
"Do you want any help," Harry asked, putting his hand on Darien's shoulder.  
  
"No, I'll be alright," He said. "Just help me get back to the tower before anyone else notices I'm missing."  
  
They started to head back across the school grounds. They were quite until the reached the main courtyard.  
  
"So," Harry said. "Are you going to go back home? I mean, these are unusual circumstances for an exchange student."  
  
Darien stopped where he was standing. This was a bad thing since Harry kept walking and the two of them became entangled in the invisibility cloak. After they had untangled themselves, Darien cleared his throat and answered.  
  
"No," he said. "I'm staying here. There would be no point in me going back."  
  
"What are you talking about?" asked Harry. "Don't you want to go and see your family? I'm sure you're all worried about each other and that you'd all like to be back together again." Darien didn't answer for several moments. When he did, Harry could here the pain in his voice as Darien choked back the tears.  
  
"I have no family," he said. "I'm an orphan."  
  
Harry could have kicked himself. He couldn't have possibly thought of a worse thing to say.  
  
"I'm sorry," Harry said. "I know how you feel."  
  
"More than you know," said Darien. "My father was killed by Voldemort as well."  
  
Harry's mind did a back flip at this news. What a horrible coincidence. He wanted to talk to Darien about it to try and ease his pain, but he wasn't sure if he could restrain his own tears.  
  
"Well, you must have friends back home," Harry said, trying to change the subject. "I'm sure you have bunches of them at your school."  
  
"Not as many as you think," Darien answered. "Besides, my work here supercedes my friends back home."  
  
"What work?" Harry asked, extremely puzzled now.  
  
"You know," Darien said. "My job."  
  
"What job?"  
  
Now Darien was puzzled. He looked at perplexedly at Harry, but his confusion soon turned to astonishment.  
  
"Dumbledore never told you why I'm here, did he?" he asked incredulously.  
  
"No he didn't," Harry said. "He just said you were an exchange student."  
  
"Oh my God," Darien said. "I can't believe it. I guess it made sense for him to keep it quite, but I never imagined..."  
  
"What are you talking about?" Harry asked. "What are doing here?"  
  
Darien looked at Harry intensely. Under his power gaze, Harry became uncomfortable.  
  
"I am the ambassador from the Nation of the Magical United States of America to the Magical Nation of Great Britain," He said.  
  
Harry stared blankly. "Could you say that again?"  
  
"I am the ambassador from the Nation of the Magical United States of America to your country," he repeated.  
  
"How can you be an ambassador?" asked Harry. "You're only a kid like me."  
  
"It is custom that most ambassadors be of a young age," Darien answered. "Because children represent our future, we send children to symbolically represent our hope for a peaceful future together."  
  
"And you never told us any of this?"  
  
"I thought Dumbledore had already told you," answered Darien. "And like I said, it's out of the question for me to leave now. Right now is when my job will be needed the most. I need to further a strong alliance with Dumbledore. I think both of our countries are going to need each other before the end of all of this. It if ever ends that is."  
  
Harry could think of nothing to say. What could he say? He had just discovered that one of his best friends was a key world political figure.  
  
"I know what you're thinking," said Darien. "Please don't let this change anything. I've had so few friends in my life that I couldn't stand it to lose one over this."  
  
"Alright," said Harry. "I don't want to lose your friendship either. Just make sure that you keep this quite, otherwise people might become distrustful of you."  
  
"Why would they do that?"  
  
"Well, when you keep something as prevalent a fact as this secret for so long without telling anyone, people are going to get a little suspicious."  
  
"I didn't mean to keep it secret," said Darien. "I really thought that everyone already knew."  
  
"I understand that, but that doesn't change how these people think. I promise you, I've had some bad experiences here with people not believing you when you say you're ignorant."  
  
"I guess you're right," said Darien. "I'll just keep it quiet."  
  
"Come on," said Harry. "It's freezing out here. Let's get back to the castle."  
  
The two of them got under the invisibility cloak and hurried through the grounds to the Gryffindor house. The crept up to their room and got into their beds. Harry went to sleep with troubled thoughts. If Darien was an ambassador, why was he reporting to Dumbledore and not Fudge, the Prime Minister? Why was he here to begin with, if the trouble in America had only recently started? There were many more questions, but Harry didn't know the answers. However, he had the uncanny fear that they all had something to do with Voldemort's return. 


End file.
